Seek the wide solace, never leave her shore.
Stretch not thine hands abroad in misery
To have them filled with woe for evermore.
Fold then thine hands; thy spirit tranquilly
This shall believe,
Pitiful of thine heart to see him grieve:
The silly strife, the dirge of ease and mirth,
The mournful murmur of unquiet sleep,
Like brawling brooks that scar the constant earth,
Shall fall on silence in the brooding deep;
Vanish, well lost
As changeling is into the faery host:
And all those swift and broken waters, fain
Of a full rest now that their rest looks fair,
Not as their own bright tears shall be the rain,
Nor climb in clouds the weary steeps of air,
But to and fro
As an assoiled sleeping heart shall go;
With such majestic air and simple state
That they shall look as one face to the sun,
And with one only voice shall sing their fate;
Graciously moving here and there, as one
Grave in his pace,
Whose way lies not in any market-place.
1918.