The drum of streets, the fever of our homes,
Clangours and murk metallurgy of gnomes,
All are by thee unheard, who dost ignore
The wisdom of the wise, in dead pasts now
Dungeon'd as never to ascend; but thou
Whose being is for the light, and hath no care
To know itself nor root from whence it sprang,
Wouldst only murmur in the heavenly air,
"The sun, the sun!" if but thy spirit sang!

མ.

O might I show thee by the lute's devising
Man, from thy soft turf, flown with light, arising!
Him, too, doth hope, the boon without a pang,
Summon with thrilling finger forth to hang-
To cast a heaving soul to the wave of wind,
Sun-passion'd and earth-lodged. Ah, tree serene,
Dilating in the glow of the unseen,

We and our roofs and towers magnifical,
Our fame's heroic head against the sky,

Our loves, and all

That, with our briefness perfect, rise and die,
Like thee must find

Beauty in a besieging of the dark;

Our glories on expectancy embark,
And the height of our ecstasy-
The touch of infinity—

Lindisfarne.

OUR seer, the net-mender,
The day that he died,
Looked out to the seaward
At ebb of the tide ;

Gulls drove like the snow
Over bight, over barn,
As he sang to the ebb
On the rock Lindisfarne :

Hail, thou blue ebbing! The breakers are gone From the stormy coast-islet Bethundered and lone! Hail, thou wide shrinking Of foam and of bubble,

The reefs are laid bare

And far off is the trouble!
For through this retreating
As soft as a smile,

The isle of the flood
Is no longer an isle.

By the silvery isthmus
Of sands that uncover,
Now feet as of angels
Come delicate over,

The fluttering children
Flee happily over!

To the beach of the mainland

Return is now clear,

The old travel thither

Dry-shod, without fear. . . .

And now at the wane
When foundations expand,
Doth the isle of the soul,
Lindisfarne, understand
She stretcheth to vastness
Made one with the land."

The Questioners.

I.

A man made a journey once over half the world
To come at the journey's end to no more than this
The cottage where he and another had long been
happy.

But lilac-bushes had closed right over the path

And the stones of the place, it seemed had become alive.

II.

Threshold, familiar threshold, may I not pass?
Not till thou tell me my name !

Stone of wonder; on thee were the wedding flowers When I bore in to my hearth that silken-haired stranger

Strange unto me was her heart, strange to her mine, And soft and doubtful she trembled, like the blue

eve. ...

Pass on, pass on!

III.

Naked and sounding stair, may I not pass?

Tell me my name.

Stair of meeting, where nightly I called the call
Of the exultant, the earth-engirdling, the nightingale,
And one from the stairhead, infinite-eyed and slow,
Came down in her gliding brightness into my
soul. . . .

Pass on, pass on!

IV.

Window, O far-seen window, may I not pass?

Tell me my name.

Window of parting,-for here would my proud one stand

Arrayed in dreams and roses,-here, if by chance

Any that she loved much, in going looked not back, Stooped she to mingle sighs and tears with the

rose...

Pass on, pass on!

V.

Chest, O thou oaken chest, may I not pass?

Tell me my name.

Coffer of vision; with bloom upon far mountains,

With rays upon ocean isles when their thunders were still,

With these did she weave her dresses, simple and secret,

Fragrant and here compacted, sealed even from

me....

Pass on, pass on!

VI.

Table, ah! merry table, may I not pass?

Tell me my name.

Table of honour, for here in the vast evening

On the head of that pale companion, that plighted

friend,