The Song Of The Pilgrims

(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)

What light of unremembered skies

Hast thou relumed within our eyes,

Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .

A certain odour on the wind,

Thy hidden face beyond the west,

These things have called us; on a quest

Older than any road we trod,

More endless than desire. . . .

Far God,

Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fills

The soul with longing for dim hills

And faint horizons! For there come

Grey moments of the antient dumb

Sickness of travel, when no song

Can cheer us; but the way seems long;

And one remembers. . . .

Ah! the beat

Of weary unreturning feet,

And songs of pilgrims unreturning! . . .

The fires we left are always burning

On the old shrines of home. Our kin

Have built them temples, and therein

Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell

In little houses lovable,

Being happy (we remember how!)

And peaceful even to death. . . .

O Thou,

God of all long desirous roaming,

Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,

And crying after lost desire.

Hearten us onward! as with fire

Consuming dreams of other bliss.

The best Thou givest, giving this

Sufficient thing, to travel still

Over the plain, beyond the hill,

Unhesitating through the shade,

Amid the silence unafraid,

Till, at some sudden turn, one sees

Against the black and muttering trees

Thine altar, wonderfully white,

Among the Forests of the Night.