The far away called her —...

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.