Ilala

The swarthy followers stood aloof,

Unled -- unfathered;

He lay beneath that grassy roof

Fresh-gathered.

He bade them, as they passed the hut,

To give no warning

Of their still faithful presence but

"Good Morning."

To him, may be, through broken sleep

And pains abated,

These words were into senses deep

Translated.

Dear dead salutes of wife and child,

Old kirkyard greetings;

Sunrises over hill-sides wild,

Heart-beatings;

Welcoming sounds of fresh-blown seas,

Of homeward travel,

Tangles of thought last memories

Unravel.

'Neath England's fretted roof of fame --

With flowers adorning

An open grave -- comes up the same

"Good Morning."

Morning o'er that weird continent

Now slowly breaking --

Europe her sullen self-restraint

Forsaking!

Morning of sympathy and trust

For such as bore

Their Master's spirit's sacred crust

To England's shore.