Ruins of towns, amid laments of women,
Weeping of children, groaning of the fallen,
Is much, in sooth; to be a holy bishop,
Legions of spirits heavenward to escort,
(The which be knoweth not) by solace of
The faith alone, and by the word of God,
In marble and in gold to hearken to
The cadence and the dreamy grief of psalms.
Is much, in sooth; but to behold and know
With one's own eyes the distant, ample lands,
And oceans, plains and star-tracks of the skies,
And divers folk, their habit, usage, gods,
This too, availeth somewhat, and hath charm
By special token of its newness, that
Doth ever change. And I have lived it through,
I, Marco Polo, Christian and Venetian.
"New Fragments of an Epic" (1894).
8. FROM "SONGS OF THE PILGRIM"
XVI.
It was in April. Youthful May
Hard by a crag his shawm did play.
A well-knit, sturdy youth was he,
Each breath was filled with melody.
It was in June. And wearied there
Stood Siren Summer: from her hair
Fell bloom on bloom; the forest stilled
Its roar; the bird no longer trilled.
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