From every quarter we, Who bent the trembling knee And cowered or grovelled prostrate day and night, Now come once more to sing A dirge before thee, King, Once more with earnest heart to do thee right....
Borne in the car along a crowded way, Sun-soaked, I saw the world like shadows glide, Or phantom boats, upon a running tide, Driven through flying fog at break of day....
What imps are these that come with scowl and leer? Black motes upon the morning's amber beam, They crowd and float about each happy dream And blow upon pure joy the taint of fear....
The seeking souls, by baleful fires made blind, Torn by entrapping brambles, thirsty and mad, Hear on the lonely waste the stealthy pad And half-held breath of glaring beasts behind;...
Here lies the woven garb he wore Of grass he gathered by the shore Whereon the phantom waves still fret and foam And sigh along the visionary sand. 'Where is he now?' you cry. 'What desolate land...