Hearing the call we know so well
Fade softly out as it began,
“Dustman, dustman,
Dustman!”

The Sleepers

The tall carnations down the garden walks
Bowed on their stalks.

Said Jock-a-dreams to John-a-nods,
“What are the odds
That we shall wake up here within the sun,
When time is done,
And pick up all the treasures one by one
Our hands let fall in sleep?” “You have begun
To mutter in your dreams,”
Said John-a-nods to Jock-a-dreams,
And they both slept again.

The tall carnations in the sunset glow
Burned row on row.

Said John-a-nods to Jock-a-dreams,
“To me it seems
A thousand years since last you stirred and spoke,
And I awoke. 
Was that the wind then trying to provoke
His brothers in their blessed sleep?” “They choke,
Who mutter in their nods,”
Said Jock-a-dreams to John-a-nods. 
And they both slept again.

The tall carnations only heard a sigh
Of dusk go by.

[Illustration]

At the Granite Gate

There paused to shut the door
A fellow called the Wind. 
With mystery before,
And reticence behind,

A portal waits me too
In the glad house of spring,
One day I shall pass through
And leave you wondering.

It lies beyond the marge
Of evening or of prime,
Silent and dim and large,
The gateway of all time.

There troop by night and day
My brothers of the field;
And I shall know the way
Their woodsongs have revealed.

The dusk will hold some trace
Of all my radiant crew
Who vanished to that place,
Ephemeral as dew.

Into the twilight dun,
Blue moth and dragon-fly
Adventuring alone,—­
Shall be more brave than I?

There innocents shall bloom
And the white cherry tree,
With birch and willow plume
To strew the road for me.

The wilding orioles then
Shall make the golden air
Heavy with joy again,
And the dark heart shall dare

Resume the old desire,
The exigence of spring
To be the orange fire
That tips the world’s gray wing.

And the lone wood-bird—­Hark,
The whippoorwill night long
Threshing the summer dark
With his dim flail of song!—­

Shall be the lyric lift,
When all my senses creep,
To bear me through the rift
In the blue range of sleep.

And so I pass beyond
The solace of your hand. 
But ah, so brave and fond! 
Within that morrow land,

Where deed and daring fail,
But joy forevermore
Shall tremble and prevail
Against the narrow door,

Where sorrow knocks too late,
And grief is overdue,
Beyond the granite gate
There will be thoughts of you.

[Illustration]

Exit Anima

  “Hospes comesque corporis,
  Quae nunc abitis in loca?”