HE shall walk in terrible, holy places,
Dreams shall take their toll of him, grief her part;
But the gods said, weeping, weeping, hiding their faces,
‘What shall the splendor profit a broken heart?’
He shall know tears and laughter for his fellows,
He shall know dawn, before the dawn-winds stir;
Before the autumn’s bitter bracken yellows,
Or the year breaks, he shall have word of her.
Sorrow and joy shall walk with him together,
Hunger shall be his portion, and new scars,
And yet alone he must go in the greening weather —
No other shall be with him under the young stars.
When the late sun passes in flame and color,
He must cry out aloud for pity and pain;
The world’s love shall hurt him, and the world dolor;
Beauty shall smite him, again, and again and again.
Yet shall he stand, unfearing, in heavenly places,
Who climbs and climbs though the stripes on his soul be seven;
But the gods said, weeping, weeping, hiding their faces,
‘We have not heard whether there be a heaven.’