Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/32

 Sometimes they call, but answer comes there none;
 * Sometimes they beckon—none will turn aside.

The long procession glitters in the sun;
 * With echoing tramp the motley pilgrims ride.

Some in the twilight chambers, wide and low,
 * Around a cold hearth gather, murmuring

Vague, half—remembered tales of long ago,
 * Songs, half forgot, of Travel and the Spring.

Wan faces peer from the uncurtained pane,
 * Across the weedy garden, fain to see,

The wayfarers that pass in sun or rain,
 * The blue, far-shining stream that threads the lea.

Here falls no word from any passer—by,
 * None lifts the latch of this forgotten gate;

Only faint winds about the lintel sigh
 * "Your house is left unto you desolate."