Meeting in Sarras
There is a meeting-place past the end of the world,
Not for the ordered ways that searched to the sunset ending,
But for those whose tattered lameness, past all befriending,
Dragged along; for a spent song, for a flag soon furled.
There is a meeting-place past the brink of the earth ó
So much I know of it; Sarras is its name,
Its trees leap sunward, a green resurgent flame,
Its hills are vast with a deep-toned prodigal mirth.
They are as citadels bidding the weary to rest,
Perhaps their dim cascades, mantillas of ivory silk,
Are truly the promised bounty, honey and milk,
Splashed from earth our motherís bare noble breast.
(Unstrung lyre, empty heart, mind ill at ease,
Hark to the green flames roaring, the wind in the Sarras trees!)
There is a meeting, Beloved. We are long in wending
Unto that place, where the may-tree stoops so chaste and queenly a head.
But whisper, "Ah, Sarras, I near thee," when thy darkest hour nears ending.
This is the Spirit City. It shall shine, though a world lie dead.