The lonesome for they know not What

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!