  It was fulfilled. The giant dhow bestirred Herself, burst from her slender moorings, ran Exulting on her course beyond the green Thin shallows to the deeper violet Of that great gem wherein the continents Are flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sails The wingÈd ghost swept outward. On the prow Unveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails, And save the revelation made no sign; And all the sound of singing was brought low. Then, as the vision vanished in the hushed Twilight that painted out the caravan, Leaving the pilgrims but a burnÛs-blur On the drab canvas of the shore, a wail Rose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply: "The aimless spindrift mingles with the scats Where suddenly the desert is the beach. A low wind whimpers up and down the flats Seeking some obstacle to lend it speech. "The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound, Darkening the waters. To a treble E Gulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort round A white sail dwindling in the impassive sea. "A last beam smites it with a benison. The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast. It bears the purpose in me that is gone, The only thing that cannot be, the past. "Let there be night. Shall evensong complain? My love was utter. Now I seek no sign. Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again. Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine. "Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view, Have climbed the hill and touched eternity, And Pisgah is a memory—of you, A white sail sinking in the summer sea." The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater, The last of day flared vibrant as a cry, And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greater Than the unrifted pumice of the sky. He turned to see the friends whose hope had ended Like his beside the gulf. He was alone. The singers and the glory that had blended With meaner notes and lowly, all were gone Into thin air. But, patient of his tether, Enduring as the dream he would not break, Only old Tous remained. As back together They fared, once more it seemed the camel spake: "Lo, these the fleeting and the true, The keen to sacrifice and slow, The plumed, the crawling, all were You That started hither long ago. For man is many when begun, But Love can weave his ends to one. "The new, the ancient, song and prose, The lower road, the higher aim, The clean, the draggled, dust and snows Were you the striving, you the same. Pride and endeavour, love and loss, The pattern is the threads that cross. "Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap, Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil, Run through your Nature like a map, Are You. The ores that vein the soil Of time and substance manifold Await the hour that makes them gold, "That found the force of you dispersed On all adventure save a quest, And part perhaps was on the worst. It sent you all upon the best, Wherein the journey is the goal. Now leaving you they leave you whole. "The rabble melts, but more remains: The golden opportunity By which the choir in us attains Not unison but unity. We feel the sunbeam, not the motes. The Voice is made of many notes. "Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man, The gambling, stumbling, praying kith We called the Singing Caravan, Have made their song at least no myth Not dawn to which yon skylark soared But earth is his and your reward. "The story ends, but not the book. Sufi, the Queen that you ensued Led and shall lead you still to look On peace—it is not solitude. Through her your warring kingdoms met, And here is room for no regret." So Dreamer-of-the-Age returned With comfort, all his being fused At last, and thus at night he mused Beside the fire that in him burned: "Heirs of the beauty yet to be, Hail, from however far ahead Or out of sight I hear you tread The dust that made this tale and me. "Each day shall raise me to rejoice That lovers such as we must bear The unbroken chain of life and share Its thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice "Shall be the servant of your mind, Your linkman waiting in the arch Of phantom city-gates to march With you by secret ways. The wind "Shall tell me of you, he and I Be keenly with you, when you go Forth in my footsteps and the glow Of movement, steadfast to deny "Only the frailer self. My grief Shall answer your unspoken word Through blithe interpreters, a bird Waking, the sounds of rill and leaf. |
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