  The far away called her— A pilgrim on the hope-lit bark of youth, A woman, a child, a soul On an argosy for the lands of south. It called her in her dreams; Her waking into a deeper dream grew; The flute of the distant Played ceaselessly the music of the new. With words of fire it called her, Beyond the bourne of her days To a silent sea of joy Washed by unending twilight-rays. It called her at dawn When night shed the star-jewels from her hair; It called her at sunset When the moon mutely ascended the heaven's stair. It called her without ceasing— Hour after hour but a calling, Till "Come, come, come!" At her soul's door kept repeating: Come, come, come!—in Her word, her music, her song; Far away, near, far again Heedless of nightfall and dawn. It called, it cried, it prayed, Till She, the deity, made answer Through youth, through age, through death To her own far away's receding star. |
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