(W. A. C. S.)

In early morn he rose elate,
Rose up with the strength of ten,
We recognised a king of men.
He would not linger, could not wait,
Opened at once the golden gate
And entered to the unlit shrine,
Poured out, yea, drank, the lustral wine.

But soon he found daylight more fair
Than the closed sanctum's darkened air;
That the world outside was wide;
That in all time there is a tide;
That it is best to serve the call
To do what's waited for by all;
That it is something less than sane
What has been done to do again.
Back he turned without a sigh,
And threw his magic passport by.
He said, ‘I am not asked for there,
My harvest grows, it seems, elsewhere,
Upon another hemisphere.’
I wait him still, but wait in vain,
I shall not see his face again.