The far away called her —
A pilgrim on the hope-lit bark of youth,
A woman, a child, a soul
On an argosy for the lands of south.
It called her in her dreams;
Her waking into a deeper dream grew;
The flute of the distant
Played ceaselessly the music of the new.
With words of fire it called her,
Beyond the bourne of her days
To a silent sea of joy
Washed by unending twilight-rays.
It called her at dawn
When night shed the star-jewels from her hair;
It called her at sunset
When the moon mutely ascended the heaven's stair.
It called her without ceasing —
Hour after hour but a calling,
Till “Come, come, come!”
At her soul's door kept repeating:
Come, come, come!— in
Her word, her music, her song;
Far away, near, far again
Heedless of nightfall and dawn.
It called, it cried, it prayed,
Till She, the deity, made answer
Through youth, through age, through death
To her own far away's receding star.