The land I came thro’ last was dumb with night,

a limbo of defeated glory, a ghost:

for wreck of constellations flicker’d perishing

scarce sustain’d in the mortuary air,

and on the ground and out of livid pools

wreck of old swords and crowns glimmer’d at whiles;

I seem’d at home in some old dream of kingship:

now it is clear grey day and the road is plain,

I am the wanderer of many years

who cannot tell if ever he was king

or if ever kingdoms were: I know I am

the wanderer of the ways of all the worlds,

to whom the sunshine and the rain are one

and one to stay or hasten, because he knows

no ending of the way, no home, no goal,

and phantom night and the grey day alike

withhold the heart where all my dreams and days

might faint in soft fire and delicious death:

and saying this to myself as a simple thing

I feel a peace fall in the heart of the winds

and a clear dusk settle, somewhere, far in me.