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.