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Call not thy wanderer home as yet
Though it be late.
Now is his first assailing of
The invisible gate.
Be still through that light knocking. The hour
Is throng’d with fate.
To that first tapping at the invisible door
Fate answereth.
What shining image or voice, what sigh
Or honied breath,
Comes forth, shall be the master of life
Even to death.
Satyrs may follow after. Seraphs
On crystal wing
May blaze. But the delicate first comer
It shall be King.
They shall obey, even the mightiest,
That gentle thing.
All the strong powers of Dante were bow’d
To a child’s mild eyes,
That wrought within him that travail
From depths up to skies,
Inferno, Purgatorio
And Paradise.
Amid the soul’s grave councillors
A petulant boy
Laughs under the laurels and purples, the elf
Who snatch’d at his joy,
Ordering Caesar’s legions to bring him
The world for his toy.
In ancient shadows and twilights
Where childhood had stray’d,
The world’s great sorrows were born
And its heroes were made.
In the lost boyhood of Judas
Christ was betray’d.
Let thy young wanderer dream on:
Call him not home.
A door opens, a breath, a voice
From the ancient room,
Speaks to him now. Be it dark or bright
He is knit with his doom.
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