Thule

Random rock And the stain of the rain, Smell of bracken, The windy moor And the wild cloud, And rising blurred In the showery gray A nameless mound Of the perished people Who built nothing,-- Content I savour My Northern earth, Till memory's shuttle Darts across it A far picture; A little temple Long deserted Warming its honey--pale Gracious columns In the soft South. Remote the mountains In blue noon; Before the temple A spring bubbles In vivid grass. There once approaching To enter the sacred Dimness, youth Beheld gleaming The breasts of Venus; Vanished! only The morning sun Comes to the marble Warm as the touch Of youthful lips. Am I there, Where the vines redden Beneath white towers And dark the cypress Points aloof, Where Beauty brought forth Wondrous children To smile down Time And the passing, passing Trouble of the world? Or here, where rooted Ancient fibre Stirs to the wind And the blood in answer Deeply stirs; To the wind that smells Of ocean spray, That blows as the spirit Blows, and finds Upon earth no home?