Within the Summer dawn I dreamed a dream
Of sand wastes where a strange procession came:
Men patriarchal, stern, robed in white flame,
Who knelt and lifted empty hands that seem
To plead for something, while with scorn supreme:
“Thy future years are we! Ask not our name!
We empty-handed come. Each one the same.”
I knew they reached the gray horizon’s gleam.
“Look! Look behind!”—I cried—“the cherubs there
Upholding each a wine glass, rich, flower-crowned,
Mirrored within whose radiant deeps is found
My love and I—immortal—earth-gods fair.
The future, stern, stern keepers, take! ’tis thine.
I care not, for that red rose past is mine!”
V
If life and love are garments that grow old
And frayed and soiled as those that beggars wear,
I’ll put them from me while they still are fair.
And purply splendid, still undimmed their gold.
I will not suffer word of them be told
That’s pitiful or hath a grievous air,
Joy shall be on them blazoned everywhere
As on twin standards of the warrior soul.
I will not wait till Hope—that coward bird—
Does backward fly becoming Memory,
Untruths to prattle to me foolishly.
The day that first my heart shall bring me word
I’ll leave forever these twin robes of state
And laugh to know Grief could not make me wait.