Brown Earth, Sun-Soaked, Beneath His Head And Over The Quiet Limbs.... Through Time Unreckoned Lay This Brown Earth For Him. Now Is He Come. Truly He Hath A Sweet Bed. The Perfume Shed From Invisible Gardens Is Chaliced By Kindly Airs And Carried For Welcome To The Stranger. Long Seasons Ere He Came, This Wilderness They Habited. They, And The Mist Of Stars Down-Spread About Him As A Hush Of Vespering Birds. They, And The Sun, The Moon: Naught Now Denies Him The Moon'S Coming, Nor The Morning Trail Of Gold, The Luminous Print Of Evening, Red At The Sun'S Tread. The Brown Earth Holds Him. The Stars And Little Winds, The Friendly Moon And Sun Attend In Turn His Rest. They Linger Above Him, Softly Moving. They Are Gracious, And Gently-Wise: As Though Remembering How His Hunger, His Kinship, Knew Them Once But Blindly In Thoughts Unsaid, As A Dream That Fled. So Is He Theirs Assuredly As The Seasons. So Is His Sleep By Them For Ever Companioned. ...And, Perchance, By The Voices Of Bright Children Playing And Knowing Not: By The Echo Of Young Laughter When Their Dancing Is Sped. Truly He Hath A Sweet Bed.