The Camp within the West

O did you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast ?

Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ' Whither speed ? '
They answered, ' To the West ! '

And were they pale as pale could be —
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise ?

Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf ;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.

Did no one say the way is long.
And crave a little rest ?
Oh no, they said, ' The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West ! '

And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret ?

Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.

And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend ?
The Weary-Hearted — and their road
At sunset hath an end.

Shed tears for them . . . Nay, nay, no tears !
They yearn for endless rest ;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.