The Gates of Horn
The Gates of Horn are dull of hue
(If all our wise men tell us true).
No songs, they say, nor perfumed air
Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there,
No leaves are green, no skies are blue.
Yet he who will may find a clue
(Mid shadows steeped in opal dew)
To seek, and see them passing fair,
The Gates of Horn.
The man that goes not wreathed with rue,
Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue,
With red rose-garlands in their hair
And garments gay with gold and vair,
Full fain to meet him trooping through
The Gates of Horn.
Graham R. Tomson.