The vagabond moon--
That wilful lover of change--
And the workaday sun,

Dying summer and fall,
Seasons and men
And herds, he has them all
In his shadowy ken.

He calls and they come, leaving strife,
Leaving discord and death,
Out of oblivion to life,
Though its span be a breath.

There they are, all the beautiful things
I loved and lost sight of
Long since in the far-away springs,
Come back for a night of

New being as good as their old,
Aye, better in fact,
For somehow he gilds their fine gold,--
Gives the one thing they lacked,

The breath, aspiration, desire,
Core, kindle, control,
Memory and rapture and fire,--
The touch of man's soul.

How know the true master? I know