FOUR SONGS OF FOUR SEASONS.
187
What souls the darkness covers,
What love‑lost souls of lovers,
Whose cry still hangs and hovers
In each man's born that hears.
For there by Hector's brother
And yet some thousand other
He that had grief to mother
Passed pale from Dante's sight;
With one fast linked as fearless,
Perchance, there only tearless;
Iseult and Tristram, peerless
And perfect queen and knight.
A shrill‑winged sound comes flying
North, as of wild souls crying
The cry of things undying,
That know what life must be;
