Ii

Within a land of cataracts and mountains old, and sand, Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o’er which the stars burn red, I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in hand And shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:--

“Oh, we are weary marching on! Our limbs are travel-worn; With cross and sword from dawn to dawn We wend with raiment torn: The leagues to go, the leagues we’ve gone Are sand and rock and thorn-- The way is long to Avalon Beyond the deeps of morn.”