Dust of the noon-day world
Scattering over the land—
Dust from the rags of the world
Falls on the dusk of my hand;
Out of the east and west,
Out of the north and south,
Over my brow and eyes,
Over my hands and mouth.
What will you have from me
You have not taken yet?
Take—or it may be late;
Take—or I may forget.
This is the time of times,
Dear, for your gathering.
Quick! for the cross-eyed crow
Flaps with her fatal wing.
Where Westminster Abbey shades
Lean on narrow green-leaf glades,
I, a brother to the grass,
Stand and watch the sunlight pass.
One and one more century
Here passed by so quietly.
One more, two more centuries,
Come—for all the use there is.