O ye disconsolate and heavy-souled,
That evening cometh when ye too shall learn
The pangs of one who may no more return,
To live again the uneven days of old.
Ye too shall weary of the myrrh and gold
(Seeing the gods and their great unconcern),
And, as I year to-day, your feet shall yearn
To touch that Earth which ye afar behold.
Think now upon your grievous things to bear,—
Some goal unwon, some old sin’s lurid stain,
Your vistaed paths,—are they not fair as hope?
But I between dead suns must peer, and grope
Among forsaken worlds, one glimpse to gain
Of my old place—the heaviest shadow there.