Come, gone—­gone for ever—­
Gone as an unreturning river—­
Gone as to death the merriest liver—­
  Gone as the year at the dying fall—­ 370
To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never—­
    Gone once for all.

Came at length the starting-day,
With last words, and last words to say,
With bodiless cries from far away—­
  Chiding wailing voices that rang
Like a trumpet-call to the tug and fray;
    And thus they sang: 

’Is there life?—­the lamp burns low;
Is there hope?—­the coming is slow:  380
The promise promised so long ago,
  The long promise, has not been kept. 
Does she live?—­does she die?—­she slumbers so
    Who so oft has wept.

’Does she live?—­does she die?—­she languisheth
As a lily drooping to death,
As a drought-worn bird with failing breath,
  As a lovely vine without a stay,
As a tree whereof the owner saith,
    “Hew it down to-day."’ 390

Stung by that word the Prince was fain
To start on his tedious road again. 
He crossed the stream where a ford was plain,
  He clomb the opposite bank though steep,
And swore to himself to strain and attain
    Ere he tasted sleep.

Huge before him a mountain frowned
With foot of rock on the valley ground,
And head with snows incessant crowned,
  And a cloud mantle about its strength, 400
And a path which the wild goat hath not found
    In its breadth and length.

But he was strong to do and dare: 
If a host had withstood him there,
He had braved a host with little care
  In his lusty youth and his pride,
Tough to grapple though weak to snare. 
    He comes, O Bride.

Up he went where the goat scarce clings,
Up where the eagle folds her wings, 410
Past the green line of living things,
  Where the sun cannot warm the cold,—­
Up he went as a flame enrings
    Where there seems no hold.

Up a fissure barren and black,
Till the eagles tired upon his track,
And the clouds were left behind his back,
  Up till the utmost peak was past,
Then he gasped for breath and his strength fell slack;
    He paused at last. 420

Before his face a valley spread
Where fatness laughed, wine, oil, and bread,
Where all fruit-trees their sweetness shed,
  Where all birds made love to their kind,
Where jewels twinkled, and gold lay red
    And not hard to find.

Midway down the mountain side
(On its green slope the path was wide)
Stood a house for a royal bride,
  Built all of changing opal stone, 430
The royal palace, till now descried
    In his dreams alone.

Less bold than in days of yore,
Doubting now though never before,
Doubting he goes and lags the more: 
  Is the time late? does the day grow dim? 
Rose, will she open the crimson core
    Of her heart to him?