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's beatings!

Welcoming sounds of fresh-blown seas,
Of homeward travel,
Tangles of thought's 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.