Unanointed.

I.     Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic shores,     Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed,     I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars,     With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:     "Oh, we are sick of rowing here!     With toil our arms are numb;     With smiting year on weary year     Salt-furrows of the foam:     Our journey's end is never near,     And will no nearer come     Beyond our reach the shores appear     Of far Elysium." II.     Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand,     Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red,     I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in hand     And shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:     "Oh, we are weary marching on!     Our limbs are travel-worn;     With cross and sword from dawn to dawn     We wend with raiment torn:     The leagues to go, the leagues we've gone     Are sand and rock and thorn     The way is long to Avalon     Beyond the deeps of morn." III.     They are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursue     The vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead;     To whom God gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do,     The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:     I, too, am weary toiling where     The winds and waters beat;     When shall I ease the oar I bear     And rest my tired feet?     When will the white moons cease to glare,     The red suns veil their heat?     And from the heights blow sweet the air     Of Love's divine retreat?