THE SEALING

But yestermorn my marshalled hopes were held Upon the verge of august pilgrimage; To-day I am as birds that leave the cage To seek green fastnesses they knew of eld;

To-day I am as one who hides his face Within his golden beaver, and whose hand Clenches with pride his tried and conquering brand, Ay, as a hunter mounted for the chase.

For, see: upon my lips I carry now A touch that speaks reveille to my soul; I have a dispensation large enow

To enfold the world and circumscribe each pole. Slow let me speak it: From her lips and brow I took the gifts she only could endow.