Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/227

 AR are those tranquil hills,
 * Dyed with fair evening's rose;

On urgent, secret errand bent,
 * A traveller goes.

Approach him strangers three,
 * Barefooted, cowled; their eyes

Scan the lone, hastening solitary
 * With dumb surmise.

One instant in close speech
 * With them he doth confer:

God-sped, he hasteneth on.
 * That anxious traveller . ..

I was that man — in a dream:
 * And each world's night in vain

I patient wait on sleep to unveil
 * Those vivid hills again.

Would that they three could know
 * How yet burns on in me

Love — from one lost in Paradise —
 * For their grave courtesy.