It is now forty years ago
 I stretched to her mine empty hand,
 Pilgrim in that waste land;
“Teach me,” I prayed, “make me to know,
 Thou silent sitter in the sand!”
From out the gray waste, there,
Naught but the old unfathomed stare.

To-day I went, as long ago—
 My hair as gray as was the sand—
 A gift-rose in my hand.
“Speak not,” I said; “I need not know.
 Does this aught understand?”
Shallowed the fathomless stare;
She smiled, the red thing was so fair.