Memory singing from a tree has given
The plan of my buried heaven,
That I may dig therein as in a mine.

Did I call you, little Vigilant One, under the waning sun?
Did you come barefooted through the dew,
Through the fine dew-drenched grass when the colours faded
Out of the sky?
Who is that shadow holding over you a veil of tempest woven,
Shaded with streaks of cloud and lightning on the edges?
Lean nearer, I fear him, and the sigh
Of the rising wind worries the sedges,
And the cry
Of a white, long-legged bird from the marsh
Cuts through the twilight with a threat of night.
The receding voice is harsh
And echoes in my spirit.
Hark, do you hear it wailing against the hollow rocks of the hill,
As it takes its lonely outgoing towards the sea?
Lean nearer still.
Your silence is an ecstasy of speech,
You are the only white
Unconquered by the overwhelming frown.
Who stands behind you so impassively?
Bid him begone, or let me reach
And tear away his veil. But he is gone.
Who was he? surely no comrade of the dawn,
No lover from an earthly town,
Was he then Love? or Death? . . . but he is gone.