VIII

Strive we no more. Some hearts are like the bright

Tree-chequered spaces, flecked with sun and shade,

Where gathered in old days the youth and maid

To woo, and weave their dances: with the night

They cease their flutings, and the next day's light

Finds the smooth green unconscious of their tread,

And ready its velvet pliancies to spread

Under fresh feet, till these in turn take flight.

But other hearts a long long road doth span,

From some far region of old works and wars,

And the weary armies of the thoughts of man

Have trampled it, and furrowed it with scars,

And sometimes, husht, a sacred caravan

Moves over it alone, beneath the stars.