（Halted around the fire by night， after moon-set， they sing this beneath the trees.）

　　What light of unremembered skies

　　Hast thou relumed within our eyes，

　　Thou whom we seek， whom we shall find？ . . .

　　A certain odour on the wind，

　　Thy hidden face beyond the west，

　　These things have called us； on a quest

　　Older than any road we trod，

　　More endless than desire. . . .

　　Far God，

　　Sigh with thy cruel voice， that fills

　　The soul with longing¹ for dim hills

　　And faint horizons！ For there come

　　Grey moments of the antient dumb

　　Sickness of travel， when no song

　　Can cheer us； but the way seems long；

　　And one remembers. . . .

　　Ah！ the beat

　　Of weary unreturning feet，

　　And songs of pilgrims unreturning！ . . .

　　The fires we left are always burning

　　On the old shrines² of home. Our kin³

　　Have built them temples， and therein

　　Pray to the Gods we know； and dwell

　　In little houses lovable，

　　Being happy （we remember how！）

　　And peaceful even to death. . . .

　　O Thou，

　　God of all long desirous roaming，

　　Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing，

　　And crying after lost desire.

　　Hearten us onward⁴！ as with fire

　　Consuming dreams of other bliss⁵.

　　The best Thou givest， giving this

　　Sufficient thing —— to travel still

　　Over the plain， beyond the hill，

　　Unhesitating through the shade，

　　Amid the silence unafraid，

　　Till， at some sudden turn， one sees

　　Against the black and muttering trees

　　Thine altar， wonderfully white，

　　Among the Forests of the Night.