Epilogue

Come tell us, you that travel far
With brave or shabby merchandise,
Have you saluted any star
That goes uncourtiered in the skies?

Do you remember leaf or wing
Or brook the willows leant along,
Or any small familiar thing
That passed you as you went along?

Or does the trade that is your lust
Drive you as yoke-beasts driven apace,
Making the world a road of dust
From market-place to market-place?

Your traffic in the grain, the wine,
In purple and in cloth of gold,
In treasure of the field and mine,
In fables of the poets told,—

But have you laughed the wine-cups dry
And on the loaves of plenty fed,
And walked, with all your banners high,
In gold and purple garmented?

And do you know the songs you sell
And cry them out along the way?
And is the profit that you tell
After your travel day by day

Sinew and sap of life, or husk—
Dead coffer-ware or kindled brain?
And do you gather in the dusk
To make your heroes live again?

If the grey dust is over all,
And stars and leaves and wings forgot,
And your blood holds no festival—
Go out from us; we need you not.

But if you are immoderate men,
Zealots of joy, the salt and sting
And savour of life upon you—then
We call you to our counselling.

And we will hew the holy boughs
To make us level rows of oars,
And we will set our shining prows
For strange and unadventured shores.

Where the great tideways swiftliest run
We will be stronger than the strong
And sack the cities of the sun
And spend our booty in a song.