Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/737

1864.] And the fisher in his skiff,

And the hunter on the moss,

Hear their call from cape and cliff,

See their hands the birch-leaves toss.

Wistful, longing, through the green

Twilight of the clustered pines,

In their faces rarely seen

Beauty more than mortal shines.

Fringed with gold their mantles flow

On the slopes of westering knolls;

In the wind they whisper low

Of the Sunset Land of Souls.

Doubt who may, O friend of mine!

Thou and I have seen them too;

On before with beck and sign

Still they glide, and we pursue.

More than clouds of purple trail

In the gold of setting day;

More than gleams of wing or sail

Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

Glimpses of immortal youth,

Gleams and glories seen and lost,

Far-heard voices sweet with truth

As the tongues of Pentecost,—

Beauty that eludes our grasp,

Sweetness that transcends our taste,

Loving hands we may not clasp,

Shining feet that mock our haste,—

Gentle eyes we closed below,

Tender voices heard once more,

Smile and call us, as they go

On and onward, still before.

Guided thus, O friend of mine!

Let us walk our little way,

Knowing by each beckoning sign

That we are not quite astray.

Chase we still with baffled feet

Smiling eye and waving hand,

Sought and seeker soon shall meet,

Lost and found, in Sunset Land!