262

The lonesome for they know not What
The Eastern Exiles—be
Who strayed beyond the Amber line
Some madder Holiday

And ever since—the purple Moat
They strive to climb—in vain
As Birds—that tumble from the clouds
Do fumble at the strain

The Blessed Ether—taught them
Some Transatlantic Morn
When Heaven—was too common—to miss
Too sure—to dote upon!