A Spring Harvest/A Preface for a Tale I have never told
A PREFACE FOR A TALE I HAVE NEVER TOLD
Herein is nought of windy citadelsWhere proud kings dwell, that with an iron handDeal war or justice: here no historyOf valiant ships upon the wine-dark seasPassing strange lands and threading channels straitBetween embalmed island: here no songThat men shall sing in battle and rememberWhen they are old and grey beside the fire:Only a story gathered from the hillsAnd the wind crying of forgotten, days,A story that shall whisper, "All things change—For friends do grow indifferent, and lovesDie like a dream at morning: bitternessIs the sure heritage of all men born,And he alone sees truly, who looks outFrom some huge aery peak, considering notFast-walled cities, or the works of men,But turns his gaze unto the mountain-topsAnd the unfathomable blue of heavenThat only change not with the changing years"———A tale that shod itself with ancient shoonAnd wrapped its cloak, and wandered from the west.