THEY stirred the carven agate door
Back from the cloisters, where of yore
One toiled by night, and toiling, kept
The starlight on his bended head:
“O enter with us, straight and free,
The master’s place of mystery;
Had he not gone beyond the sea,
He would have bid us come,” they said.
But from the threshold hushed and gray
The loiterer turned, and made his way
From arch to arch, and answered low,
Pale with some ever-deepening dread:
“What he once promised to unfold,
Without him, how shall I behold?
O enter you whose hearts are bold;
My heart hath failed me here,” he said.
Thou dead magician, be it so!
I close thy pages, and forego
The beauty other men may scan
With much of awe and tenderness;
And if this blessing half-divine,
With gracious sorrow I resign
To faith that firmer is than mine,
Thou knowest if I love thee less!