By George Sterling

No voice hath said the mighty word "Farewell!"
    What spirit, then, fills with a sweet despair
        And swiftly broken spell
The crimson gardens of the mourning air?

The clouds go forth on seas without a port;
    Back unto Earth, its mother, sinks the leaf.
        Lone are the days and short
That hold at heart this ecstasy and grief.

Now Sorrow hath her pure and perfect part,
    Turning great eyes on Beauty's dear excess,
        Till, desperate, the heart
Aches for some wild and unknown happiness.

Tho Time have shown us that it is not here—
    The joy that stirs our hunger—still we wait.
        Its iris in the tear
Gives Hope her haven and our dreams their gate.

Now find we, tho the guerdon be forgot,
    A glory set beyond us, and a call
        That cries that we are not
As clouds that vanish or as leaves that fall.

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