The tide of years is washing by,
    The misty water drifts between
A soul with wings that may not fly
    And shadowy realms that might have been.

Too late, too late, alas, I know
    The track that winds by shining leaves
From where the flood reflects, below,
    The greyness of the heart that grieves.

Another yet may tread the way,
    And offer at that hidden shrine
His gift of rolled and twisted clay,
    And set his lips to holy wine.

Another yet may tinge the flame
    Upon that altar blue or red,
And freely call upon Her name,
    And taste at will the blessed bread.

The waves are grey about the rocks,
    A cold wind sets across the sea,
A travelling ray of sunlight mocks
    The shadow on the heart of me.