Westward the sun,—­low, slow and golden;
Eastward the moon climbed, honey-pale. 
O do you remember? while our eyes were holden,
Close, close upon us,—­the Golden Sail? 
Wind-swift she came,—­thing of living flame,
Sea-breathing Glory, to make the heart afraid! 
The ripples, fold on fold
Of coiling gold,
Trailing a thousand ways
Her golden maze,
Rocked in a golden tumult, every one,
The gondolas, the ships .. 
Westward she made ..... 
A portent from the sky,—­gone by, gone by,
To golden, far eclipse; ... 
Into the Sun.

Behold, a mystery
That shook to golden throbbing all the sea. 
Oh, and what needed one more wonder be
For thee and me, Beloved? thee and me?

RICH MAN, POOR MAN

  ’Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief,
  Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief.’

I

Highway, stretched along the sun,
Highway, thronged till day is done;
Where the drifting Face replaces
Wave on wave on wave of faces,
And you count them, one by one: 
    ’Rich man—­Poor man—­Beggar man—­Thief: 
    Doctor—­Lawyer—­Merchant—­Chief.’
Is it soothsay?—­Is it fun?

Young ones, like as wave and wave;
Old ones, like as grave and grave;
Tide on tide of human faces
With what human undertow! 
Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief!—­
Tell me of the eddying spaces,
Show me where the lost ones go;
Like and lost, as leaf and leaf. 
What’s your secret grim refrain
Back and forth and back again,
Once, and now, and always so? 
Three days since, and who was Thief? 
Three days more, and who’ll be Chief? 
Oh, is that beyond belief,
Doctor, Lawyer—­Merchant-Chief?

    (Down, like grass before the mowing;
    On, like wind in its mad going:—­
    Wind and dust forever blowing.)

Highway, shrill with murderous pride,
Highway, of the swarming tide! 
Why should my way lead me deeper? 
I am not my Brother’s keeper.

II

Byway, ambushed with the dark,
Byway, where the ears may hark;
Live and fierce when day is done,
You, that do without the Sun:—­
What’s this game you bring to nought?—­
Muttering like a thing distraught,
Reckoning like a simpleton? 
(Since the hearing must be brief,—­
Living or a dying thief!)
Cobbled with the anguished stones
That the thoroughfare disowns;
Stones they gave you for your bread
Of the disinherited! 
Where the Towers of Hunger loom,
Crowding in the dregs of doom;
Where the lost sky peering through
Sees no more the grudging grass,—­
Only this mud-mirrored blue,
Like some shattered looking-glass.

    (Under, with the sorry reaping! 
    Underneath the stones of weeping,
    For the Dark to have in keeping.)