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334 Till the predestined hour came, A hidden will leaped up in flame, And through its deed the risen soul Strode on self-conquering to the goal. This was the dream of one who died For country, said his countryside. We choose this cause or that, yet still The Everlasting works Its will. The slayer and the slain may be Knit in a secret harmony. What does the spirit urge us to? Some sacrifice that may undo The bonds that hold us to the clay And limit life to this cold day? Some for a gentle dream will die: Some for an empire's majesty: Some for a loftier humankind, Some to be free as cloud or wind, Will leave their valley, climb their slope. Whate'er the deed, whate'er the hope, Through all the varied battle cries A Shepherd with a single voice Still draws us nigh the Gates of Gold That lead unto the Starry Fold. So it may be that Michael died For some far other countryside Than that grey Ireland he had known. Yet on his dream of it was thrown Some light from that consuming Fire Which is the end of all desire. If men adore It as the power, Empires and cities, tower on tower, Are built in worship by the way, High Babylon or Nineveh. Seek It as love and there may-be A Golden Age and Arcady. All shadows are they of one thing To which all life is journeying.