My hope is in the unharvestable deep
That shows with eve the treasure of the stars
To mournful kings behind their palace-bars,
And wanderers outworn, and boys who weep
A shattered bauble — or above the sleep
Of headsmen, and of men condemned to die,
Pours out the moon's white mercy from on high,
Or hides with clement gloom the hours that creep
Like death-worms to the grave. . . . And I have ta'en
From storming seas by sunset glorified,
Or from the dawn of ashen wastes and wide,
Some light re-gathered from the lamps that wane,
And promise of a translunary Spain
Where loves forgone and forfeit dreams abide.