Envoi : 1904 Poem by Thomas MacDonagh

Seeking, I onward strive, straight on, nor yet
Come to the place I sighted long ago,
Nor shall come, I fear now, until the glow
Of this impetuous morning-tide be set
'Mid sober-tinted clouds of calm regret,
Philosophy -- destined perhaps to grow,
For all their shadow, into truth, and so
To trust more sure that strongly can forget.

The prelude thus of all my after-play
These variant notes, most wayward, hesitant,--
The groping of blind fingers that will stray
Over the stiff strange keys ere the bold chant
Breaks from the organ, sudden, resonant,
And men that murmured waiting, silent stay.