117 . The Robe of Grass

HERE lies the woven garb he wore

Of grass he gathered by the shore

Whereon the phantom waves still fret and foam

And sigh along the visionary sand.

‘Where is he now?’ you cry; ‘What desolate land

Gleams round him in dull mockery of home?’

You knew him by the robe he cast

About him, grey and worn at last.

‘It fades,’ you murmur, ‘changes, lives and dies.

Why has he vanished? Whither is he fled?

And is there any light among the dead?

Can any dream come singing where he lies?’

Ah peace! lift up your clouded eyes,

Nor where this curious relic lies

Grope in the blown dust for the print of feet.

Dim, tottering, ghastly sounds are these; but he

Laughs now as ever, still aloof and free,

Eager and wild and passionate and fleet.

Because he has dropped the part he played,

Shall love be baffled and dismayed?

Let the frail earth and all its visions melt,

And let the heart that loves, the eye that sees,

Seek him amid immortal mysteries,

For lo, he dwells where he has ever dwelt.