THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his friend, And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming, Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming And humming sands, where windy surges wend: And he called loudly to the stars to bend From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they Among themselves laugh on and sing alway: And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend Cried out, _Dim sea, hear my most piteous story_! The sea swept on and cried her old cry still, Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill; He fled the persecution of her glory And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping, Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening, But naught they heard, for they are always listening, The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping. And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend, Sought once again the shore, and found a shell And thought, _I will my heavy story tell Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart; And my own tale again for me shall sing, And my own whispering words be comforting, And lo! my ancient burden may depart_. Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim; But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
‘I make the cloak of Sorrow: O, lovely to see in all men’s sight Shall be the cloak of Sorrow, In all men’s sight.’
‘What do you build with sails for flight?’
‘I build a boat for Sorrow, O, swift on the seas all day and night Saileth the rover Sorrow, All day and night.’
‘I weave the shoes of Sorrow, Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men’s ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.’
_A little Indian temple in the Golden Age. Around it a garden; around that the forest._ ANASHUYA, _the young priestess, kneeling within the temple_.
SEND peace on all the lands and flickering corn.— O, may tranquillity walk by his elbow When wandering in the forest, if he love No other.—Hear, and may the indolent flocks Be plentiful.—And if he love another, May panthers end him.—Hear, and load our king With wisdom hour by hour.—May we two stand, When we are dead, beyond the setting suns, A little from the other shades apart, With mingling hair, and play upon one lute.