Through These Pale Cold Days

Through these pale cold days

    What dark faces burn

    Out of three thousand years,

    And their wild eyes yearn,

    While underneath their brows

    Like waifs their spirits grope

    For the pools of Hebron again—

    For Lebanon's summer slope.

    They leave these blond still days

  In dust behind their tread

  They see with living eyes

  How long they have been dead.