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The Dead Shrine.

Peace over the roar. Even the sea,
Keeping a dread roll like wingless fate,
Seemeth to hush when the last star
Closes its weary eye.

Long, long have I watched, marking how near
Unto the wide sea the night shades are,
Jealous to see even the white sheen
Cast by the shrouded moon.

Far over the hills my eyes were strained
After the pale glow that warmed my shrine,
Fanned by a wind lost in the dim night,
Here by the mocking tide.

No light from the fires now they have sunk;
Only the dull surge along the shore
Beats on my heart, where once the bright shrine
Wafted its tender flame.

What if my shrine be not re-lit
After the live dawn with tapering light
Flameth to day, why should my numb soul
Sigh for a borrowed fire?

Why should the seas cruelly mock
As they of late mocked my shrivelled thoughts,
Seeming like fate driven with slow wheels
Over my darkened brain?

Surely the waves take a new gleam
When first the great sun his forehead shows,
And this my hope—my soul itself may
Burn with the sun's own heat.

Then shall this tide fall on the shore
Jewelled with warm love, showering spray
Over the sand, whiter than shed pearls,
Softer than tears for me.

—M.E.H.