I We chose the faint chill morning, friend and friend, Pacing the twilight out beneath an oak, Soul calling soul to judgement; and we spoke Strange things and deep as any poet penned, Such truth as never truth again can mend, Whatever arts we win, what gods invoke; It was not wrath, it made nor strife nor smoke: Be what it may, it had a solemn end. Farewell, in peace. We of the selfsame throne Are foeman vassals; pale astrologers, Each a wise sceptic of the other's star. Silently, as we went our ways alone, The steadfast sun, whom no poor prayer deters. Drew high between us his majestic bar. II Mine was the mood that shows the dearest face Thro' a long avenue, and voices kind Idle, and indeterminate, and blind As rumors from a very distant place; Yet, even so, it gathered the first chase Of the first swallows where the lane's inclined, An ebb of wavy wings to serve my mind For round Spring's vision. Ah, some equal grace (The calm sense of seen beauty without sight) Befell thee, honorable heart! no less In patient stupor walking from the dawn; Albeit thou too wert loser of life's light, Like fallen Adam in the wilderness, Aware of naught but of the thing withdrawn.