Afternoon

<SPAN name="XXVI"></SPAN>XXVI<br/> <br/> <br/> The golden ships of summer time<br/> That left this morning, mad with space,<br/> Return now from the blood-red west,<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Sad, with slackened pace.</span><br/> <br/> Over the ocean now they come,<br/> Moved by listless, weary rowers;<br/> They seem like cradles in the sky<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where sleep the autumn flowers.</span><br/> <br/> Lilies, with your faded brows,<br/> You have felt the wind's keen breath;<br/> Only the flaming roses strive<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">To live beyond all death.</span><br/> <br/> What matter for their fullest flower<br/> October days or April bright?<br/> They have but simple wish to drink,<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Even the sanguine, light;</span><br/> <br/> On sombre days, when under clouds<br/> Haggardly the heavens hide,<br/> They will, for one lone ray of sun,<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">Exalt at Christmastide.</span><br/> <br/> You, oh spirits, live like them!<br/> They have not pride that lilies feel,<br/> But hold within their folds a sacred<br/> <span style="margin-left: 1em;">And immortal zeal.</span><br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <br/> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />