Not the Gift but the Giver

Suppose that o'er the blue thin circling line / Where low clouds sleep, some figure-head should shine; / White swelling sails spread out on fan-streaked skies, / And a new vessel in the west should rise. / Suppose this vessel, from untraveled zones, / Through savage suns and fierce Eurocyldons / Should bring me deeply buried in its hold / A mystic gift of jewels and blazing gold. / And, having safely brought the precious thing, / Should spread its sail, augment each shining wing, / And calmly, like a night-bird through the stars, / Speed on again, crossing the distant bars; / Then through the mists go out before my eyes, / Leaving me standing there beside the prize. / I, left on lonely shores, would ever mourn / The messenger that sailed beyond the bourne; / I, left on lonely shores, would only pray / To see again the ship that sailed away. / I, searching the horizon's purple round, / Would follow ships, hither and thither bound, / Longing for this -- to see the dim prow lift, / That brought to me my longing with my gift.

And so with thee, who broughtest me thy truth / Ablaze with jewels, alight with mystic signs, / Then vanished. Lo! with what utter ruth, / The sorrow of my gift my soul divines. / Holding with yearning talismans of thee, / Who hath passed on beyond the touch of me.