Those wayfarers they meet.

II.

No wind from out the solemn wells of night
But hath its burden of strange messages,
Tormenting for interpreter; nor less
The wizard light
That steals from noon-stilled waters, woven in shade,
Beckons somewhither, with cool fingers slim.
No dawn but hath some subtle word conveyed
In rose ineffable at sunrise rim,
Or charactery dim.

III.

One moment throbs the hearing, yearns the sight.
But tho' not far, yet strangely hid--the way,
And our sense slow; nor long for us delay
The guides their flight!
The breath goes by; the word, the light, elude;
And we stay wondering. But there comes an hour
Of fitness perfect and unfettered mood,
When splits her husk the finer sense with power,
And--yon their palm-trees tower!

IV.

Here Homer came, and Milton came, tho' blind.
Omar's deep doubts still found them nigh and nigher,