V

Morning and midday I wander, and evening, April and harvest and golden fall; Seaway or hillward, taut sheet or saddle-bow, Only the night wind brings solace at all.

Then when the tide of all being and beauty Ebbs to the utmost before the first dawn, Comes the still voice of the morrow revealing Inscrutable valorous hope—and is gone.

Therefore is joy more than sorrow, foreseeing The lust of the mind and the lure of the eye And the pride of the hand have their hour of triumph, But the dream of the heart will endure by-and-by.