Far in the South I know a Land divine, { 10} And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine, And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.

You were a Saint of unbelieving Days, Liking your Life and happy in Men's Praise; Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough, Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.

Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or Hell, Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell, Content to know not all thou knowest now, What's Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?

The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, Shall He torment them if they chance to spill? Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast Forth and forgotten,--and what will be will!

So still were we, before the Months began That rounded us and shaped us into Man. So still we SHALL be, surely, at the last, Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!

Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought - How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought - Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought,

Which gave our England for a captive Land To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, A gift to the Believer from the Priest, Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! { 11}

Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save His England, even of Harold Godwin's son; The high Tide murmurs by the Hero's Grave! { 12}