They seem like the souls of the long, long lost,
  Who breasted the ocean-main—­
Vikings whose vessels were tempest-tossed,
Voyagers who sailed, whatever the cost,
  And never came home again.

Or stranger and wilder fancy—­it seems
  As I hear their wind-torn cry,
No birds fly there through the sun’s last gleams,
But the wraiths of hopes—­the ghosts of dreams
  That the old sea-gods saw die.

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
  And the harbour lights are dim—­
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
  To the far horizon’s rim.

THE SHEPHERD WIND

When hills and plains are powdered white,
  And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
  A fairy-garden grows.

Here poppies that no hand hath sown
  Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown
  Hold frost-bound melody.

And here are blossoms like to stars
  Tangled in nets of silver lace—­
My very breath their beauty mars,
  Or stirs them from their place.

Perchance the echoes of old songs
  Found here a resting place at last
With drifting perfume that belongs
  To roses of the past.

Or all the moonbeams that were lost
  On summer nights the world forgets
May here be prisoned by the frost
  With souls of violets.

The wind doth shepherd many things—­
  And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
  All safely to the fold.

THE TEMPLE

Enter the temple beautiful!  The house not made with hands! 
Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean,
  Beneath the blue it stands,
And no cathedral anywhere
Seemeth so holy or so fair.

It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key,
No window-bars shut out the stars,
  The aisles are wide and free—­
Here through the night each altar-light
Is but a moon-beam, silver-white.

Silently as the temple grew at Solomon’s command,
Still as things seem within a dream
  This rose from out the land: 
And all the pillars, grey and high,
Lifted their arches to the sky.

Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines—­
The magic scent that hath been pent
  Within the tangled vines: 
No censor filled with spices rare
E’er swung such sweetness on the air.

And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear,
For it is blessed, and giveth rest
  To those who enter here—­
Here in the evening—­who can know
But God Himself walks to and fro!

And music past all mastering within the chancel rings;
None could desire a sweeter choir
  Than this—­that soars and sings,
Till far the scented shadows creep—­
And quiet darkness bringeth sleep.