And when the night grew deep, the father rose,
And led his son (who wondered why they went,
And in the darkness made a tortuous path
Through the corn-ricks) to an old loft, above
The stable where his horses rested still. 
Entering, he saw some plan-pursuing hand
Had been at work.  The father, leading on
Across the floor, heaped up with waiting grain,
Opened a door.  An unexpected light
Flashed on them from a cheerful lamp and fire,
That burned alone, as in a fairy tale. 
And lo! a little room, white-curtained bed,
An old arm-chair, bookshelves, and writing desk,
And some old prints of deep Virgilian woods,
And one a country churchyard, on the walls. 
The young man stood and spoke not.  The old love
Seeking and finding incarnation new,
Drew from his heart, as from the earth the sun,
Warm tears.  The good, the fatherly old man,
Honouring in his son the simple needs
Which his own bounty had begot in him,
Thus gave him loneliness for silent thought,
A simple refuge he could call his own. 
He grasped his hand and shook it; said good night,
And left him glad with love.  Faintly beneath,
The horses stamped and drew the lengthening chain.

Three sliding years, with gently blending change,
Went round ’mid work of hands, and brain, and heart. 
He laboured as before; though when he would,
With privilege, he took from hours of toil,
When nothing pressed; and read within his room,
Or wandered through the moorland to the hills;
There stood upon the apex of the world,
With a great altar-stone of rock beneath,
And looked into the wide abyss of blue
That roofed him round; and then, with steady foot,
Descended to the world, and worthy cares.

And on the Sunday, father, daughter, son
Walked to the country church across the fields. 
It was a little church, and plain, almost
To ugliness, yet lacking not a charm
To him who sat there when a little boy. 
And the low mounds, with long grass waving on,
Were quite as solemn as great marble tombs. 
And on the sunny afternoons, across
This well-sown field of death, when forth they came
With the last psalm still lingering in their hearts,
He looked, and wondered where the heap would rise
That rested on the arch of his dead breast. 
But in the gloom and rain he turned aside,
And let the drops soak through the sinking clay—­
What mattered it to him?

And as they walked
Together home, the father loved to hear
The new streams pouring from his son’s clear well. 
The old man clung not only to the old;
Nor bowed the young man only to the new;
Yet as they walked, full often he would say,
He liked not much what he had heard that morn. 
He said, these men believed the past alone;
Honoured those Jewish times as they were Jews;
And had no ears for this poor needy hour,
That up and down the centuries doth go,
Like beggar boy that wanders through the streets,
With hand held out to any passer by;
And yet God made it, and its many cries.