The White Moon Wasteth.

A poem by Jean Ingelow

The white moon wasteth,
And cold morn hasteth
Athwart the snow,
The red east burneth
And the tide turneth,
And thou must go.

Think not, sad rover,
Their story all over
Who come from far -
Once, in the ages
Won goodly wages
Led by a star.

Once, for all duly
Guidance doth truly
Shine as of old,
Opens for me and thee
Once, opportunity
Her gates of gold.

Enter, thy star is out,
Traverse nor faint nor doubt
Earth's antres wild,
Thou shalt find good and rest
As found the Magi blest
That divine Child.

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