O Keeper of the Sacred Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny,
Whose eye is the blue canopy,
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.

“Lo, through the wintry atmosphere,
On the white bosom of the sphere,
A cluster of five lakes appear;
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted bier.

“And on that vast and hollow field,
With both lips closed and both eyes sealed,
A mighty Figure is revealed,—
Stretched at full length, and stiff and stark, as in the hollow of a shield.

Ev'n as we to our childhood's home return,
So come the scattered clans
To visit the ancestral seat where burn
The altar-fires of man's
Unquenched devotion to his race,
And ancient Newbury is such a sacred place.

Here in the early days, when danger lurked
At every turn;
When bush or boulder ruthless worked
Its fatal spell
And tomahawk or flint-sharp arrow fell
On pious Pilgrims unaware;
When every forest covert was the lair
Of prowling wolf or sneaking bear,
Along the pleasant reaches of this stream

HOWEVER far we roam
Our hearts are filled with longing for the home
Where all our old associations center:
The tiny village by the placid river,
The weather-beaten farmhouse on the hill
Which we can never enter
Without a joyous thrill,
Or think of now without an eyelid's quiver.

How dear those ne'er-forgotten places:
The room where first we saw the light,
The fireplace where each bitter winter's night
The great logs, blazing, brightened the fond faces
Of loved ones now forever vanished;

“Hast thou any green cloth,” said our king,
“That thou wilt sell now to me?”
“Yea, fore God,” said Robin,
“Thirty yards and three.”

“Robin,” said our king,
“Now pray I thee,
To sell me some of that cloth,
To me and my meyné.”

“Yes, fore God,” then said Robin,
“Or else I were a fool;
Another day ye will me clothe,
I trow, against the Yule.”
The king cast off his coté then,
A green garment he did on,
And every knight had so, i-wis,
They clothéd them full soon.
When they were clothed in Lincoln green,

Lithe and listen, gentlemen,
That be of freeborn blood;
I shall you tell of a good yeomán,
His name was Robin Hood.
Robin was a proud outlaw,
Whilés he walked on ground,
So curteyse an outlawe as he was one
Was never none yfound.
Robin stood in Barnysdale,
And leaned him to a tree,
And by hím stood Little John,
A good yeomán was he;
And also did good Scathélock,
And Much the miller's son;
There was no inch of his bodý,
But it was worth a groom.

Then bespake him Little John
All unto Robin Hood,

And so, is it so? the long sweet pain is over?
The dear familiar love must know a change?
No more am I, no more, to be your lover,
But life be cold once more, and drear, and strange.
We have sinned, you say, and sorrow must redeem
All the cruel largess of our passionate love,
And we, at the last, content us with a dream
Who have known a hell below, a heaven above
Well, be it so: thy life I shall not darken
Thy dream, for me, shall be disturbed no more:
Thine ears, by day or night, shall never hearken
The coming of the steps thou lovedst of yore

The dull day darkens to its close. The sheen
Of a myriad gas-jets lights the squalid night.
There is no joy, it seems, but what hath been:
There is nought left but semblance of delight.
Nay, is it so? Down this long darkling way
What surety is there for the hungry heart,
What vistas of white peace, rapt holiday
Of the tired soul forlorn, thus kept apart?
Oh, hearken, hearken, love! I cannot wait:
Drear is the night without, the night within
I am so tired, so tired, so baffled of our fate,
The very sport it seems of our sweet sin

“And dost thou love me not a whit the less:
And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
I love thee, love thee so, O beautiful Hell
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.

Dear, through the silence comes a vibrant call,
Thy voice, thy very voice it is, O Sweet!
Yet who shall scale the dread invisible wall
That guards the Eden where our souls would meet?
O veil of flesh, O dull mortality,
Is there no vision for the enfranchised eyes
Must we stoop low thro' Death's greenglooms to see
The immaculate light known of our wingéd sighs?
Nay, Love, of body or soul no shadow or gloom
Can always, always, thee and me dispart
Soul of my soul, thro' the very gates of Doom
Even as deep to deep, heart crieth to heart—

Where art thou, Love! Lo, I am crucified
Here on the bitter tree of my suspense,
And my soul travails in my quivering side,
Wild with the passionate longing to go hence.
Where would it voyage, lost, bewildered soul
If from the body's warm white home it strayed:
Even as the wild-fox would it find its hole,
Even as the fowls of the air would it find shade?
Yea, dear, with winnowing wings there would it fly
To fold them on the whiteness of thy breast,
And all its passion breathe into thy sigh,
Fulfil the uttermost peace of perfect rest