IX

Howbeit all is not lost:

      The warm noon ends in frost,

      And worldly tongues of promise,

      Like sheep-bells, die off from us

            On the desert hills cloud-crossed!

      Yet, through the silence, shall

      Pierce the death-angel's call,

And "Come up hither," recover all.

                        Heart, wilt thou go?

                              —"I go!

                  Broken hearts triumph so."