class="line">Yellow, long-hoarded coin and golded dust,

And she, unwearied yet and not grown wise,

Follows a little while her devious way

Across the twilight; where no voice replies

When her voice calls, bravely; and where to-day

Is even as yesterday and all days were.

Great houses loom up swiftly, out of the gray.

Knocking at last, the gradual echoes stir

The hangings of unhaunted passages;

Until she surely knows only for her

Has this House hoarded up its silences

Since the beginning of the early years,

And that this night her soul shall dwell at ease

And grow forgetful of its ancient fears

In some long-kept, unviolated room.

And so the quiet city no more hears

Her footsteps, and the streets their dust resume.

But what have I to do with her and death

Who hold these living grasses in my hands,—

With her who liveth not, yet sorroweth?

(For it shall chance, however close the bands

Of sleep be drawn about her, nevertheless

She must remember alway the old lands

She wandered in, and their old hollowness.)

—Awaiting here the strong word of the trees,

My soul leans over to the wind's caress,

One with the flowers; far off, it hears the sea's

Rumor of large, unmeasured things, and yet

It has no yearning to remix with these.

For the pines whisper, lest it may forget,

Of the near pool; and how the shadow lies