Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.

For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.