Peace as profound as death, if death
Be visited by stealthy dreams;
A vagrant note from soundless themes
That ring the comet-paths of space,
Seemed vibrant in the windless air
That trembled with its presence there. 
Out beyond the nameless place
Where neither fields nor clouds exist,
Grey from the background of the mist,
I saw three vague forms drawing near. 
My sense recoiled acute with fear;
I could not stir.  As from a cage
I watched that spectral dim cortege
Moving inexorable and slow
Against the ashen afterglow. 
Now caught the moon their robes in white,
Now strode they sable through the night,
Across the grass they came and grew
Whiter, statelier, as they drew
Beneath the shadow of the wall;
Then one by one the three stepped through
The garden door, and stood a while
Beside the pool, their image spread
Sombre, and menacing, and tall. 
Sombre as Priam’s dreadful daughter,
Menacing as a murderer’s smile,
Tall as the fingers of the dead,
Stood they beside the quiet water.

The moon went out in a golden blur,
And the small stars followed after her,
But when the fireflies cleft the air
I saw those three forms standing there,
Until the night cooled, and the trees
Shook in the strong hands of the breeze,
And then I heard their footsteps press
The muffled grass beyond the door,
And so went forth for ever more,
My three Fates to the wilderness.

Pomfret, 1919

XI — THE MAKER RESTS

I have worked too long and my hands are tired,
Said the maker;
From the earliest dawn unto deepest nightfall
Have I laboured.

From the earliest dawn before any spirit
Stirred from sleeping,
When no single note from the frozen forest
Wakened music,

Unto nightfall and the new moon rising
When the silence
From the valleys rose in a faint blue spiral,
Have I laboured.

I created dawn and the new moon rising
Out of silence;
I have worked too long and my hands are tired,
Said the maker.

I shall fold my hands; I shall rest till sunrise,
Said the maker;
In the shade of hills and the calm of starlight
Shall I slumber.

O my night is sweet with a distant music! 
I shall hear
The responding waves and the wind’s slight murmur
While I slumber.

O my night is fair with amazing colour! 
I shall dream
Of the blue-white stars and the glimmering forest
While I slumber.

O my night is rich with unfolding flowers! 
I shall breathe
All the scattered smells of the field and garden
While I slumber...

I will rise, O Night, I will make new beauty,
Said the maker,
I will make more songs, more stars, more flowers,
Said the Lord.

Cambridge, 1920

XII — THE PILGRIMAGE