Whither

What shall we do, dearie,
Dreaming such dreams?
Will they come true, dearie?
Never, it seems.

Leave the wise thrush alone;
He knows such things.
How rich the silences
Fall when he sings!

When shall we come, dearie,
Into that land
Once was our home, dearie,
Perfect as planned?

When the wind calling us,
Some summer day,
Into the long ago
Lures us away.

Where shall we go, dearie,
Wandering thus?
Far to and fro, dearie,
Life leads for us.

Thou with the morrow’s sun
Hillward and free,
I to the vast and hoar
Lone of the sea.

1886-1893.