The Passers-By

Though the dawn bring grayest thread
That my Fates have spun;
Though I lift not up my head,
Sorrow may not shun
The glory of the Sun.

Yea, and though the gold sands run
Fleet through afternoon,
Shadow, that will speed the Sun,
Brings me yet as soon
The glory of the Moon.

Blessèd Ones, and shining boon
Over all our wars!
Blessed we, by night or noon,
That no anguish mars
The glory of the Stars.

THE LITTLE PAST.