Come back. Let me give up this climb, these searches
     In trackless time and overwhelming space;
Here are tall ghosts that once were elms and birches,
     And this small field is a deserted place.

The fern you found will never learn to scatter
     Its yield upon the ground that you have left;
The veery's round, high call will turn to chatter;
     Sere are these acres, weary and bereft.

Against the skies earth rears its broken scaffold,
     Where night, so friendly once, is but a black
Stupendous ruin where the mind is baffled;
     And the blind heart cries out its endless lack:
     "Come, mend the world! Come back!"