BEYOND the north wind lay the land of old
Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed
With joy-s bright raiment and with love-s sweet bread,
The whitest flock of earth-s maternal fold.
None there might wear about his brows enrolled
A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,
Whose lovesome love of children and the dead
All men give thanks for: I far off behold
A dear dead hand that links us, and a light
The blithest and benignest of the night,
The night of death-s sweet sleep, wherein may be
A star to show your spirit in present sight
Some happier island in the Elysian sea
Where Rab may lick the hand of Marjorie.