A GRAY wind wails At the world's cold edge And its song is all for me: It calls me away From the drab-hooded town To the surf of the last lone sea. A white cloud floats With its empty car, And it bids me mount and go To the clean, sweet lands Where the strong elks feed At the milkless breasts of snow. The town's voice sounds Like a harlot's laugh, But a virgin's blush is there. And the great, gaunt rocks Are a kinder couch Than a woman's breast and hair. The bitterns cry At the world's cold edge, But their notes are sweeter far Than the warmest word On a false maid's tongue In the land where false things are. A rude, brown hut I will build some day In that land of purple howers, And my comrades shall be The sky and the wind And the cool, young heart of showers. Gold rain runs there Down a green, cold sea And its feet are silver-shod; And there's not a word In the mouth of space That mocks at the dream of God. A gray wind wails At the world's cold edge And its song is all for me: It calls me away From the drab-hooded town To the surf of the last lone sea. |