" Now whither go ye? " — Would that we did know —
But who can trace the leaves at midnight torn
From off the storm-swept branches as they go
Upon the mighty tempest's path of scorn?

" And where abide ye? " — In the refuse heap,
Our walls and rafters rotting in the dust, —
Dust watered only by the tears we weep —
Tears bitter with our need and broken trust.

" Had ye no father? " — Yea, he dreamt of fame
And scorned the thrifty hoardings of the heart, —
He whom the midnight fever overcame
To sit, his brows with laurel crowned, apart.

" What seek ye now? " — His legacy decreed,
The dreamer's treasure buried in the sod;
We are the children of the poet's breed —
Refuse us not an alms, for love of God!