Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/387

ASTRA CAELI Than from the skies which bound the stern gray sea

That girts our northern home.

Aftward the sister Crosses be,

And yonder to the lee

One burning cresset glows—a sphere

With light beyond a new moon's rays,

As if some world of vanished souls shone clear

And straight before our gaze.

Were now his spirit bright,—

Not veiled, nor dumb,—

My brother's, with the smile of years ago,

Hither to glide far down that path of light,

And lift a hand, and say aright,—

The orb from which I come!"

—Were thus 'twixt star and wave

His voice to reach me on the night-wind's breath,

I would not lightly leave thee, Dear,

Nor them who with thee here

Make of Life's best for me the choice and sum,—

But yet might not bemoan me, as the slave

Condemned, who hears the call to death;

For that strange heralding

Even of itself would answer all,—would prove

Life but a voyage such as this, and bring

To our adventuring

Its gage of the immortal boon,

Promise of after joy and toil and love;

And I would yield me, as the bird takes wing

Knowing its mate must follow sure and soon.

Ay,—but the trackless spirit

Comes not, nor is there utterance or sign

Of all we would divine 357