Heimdal

In the old days there went amid forlorn 
Ways o' the world, Heimdal the Wanderer: 
Ways loved of all wild things of plume and fur. 
Now Heimdal stands aloof, and wild things mourn. 
He hears the long grass growing and he knows 
The dropping silence of the polar snows: 
Nor from his memory is one bird's cry lost. 
Nine worlds are dreams within his dreaming eyes, 
May-flies are born and die upon his hand 
That helped to paint the sea-weeds and the skies, 
And rosemary grows where he takes his stand. 
O thou that countest leaf and flower and flake, 
Touch our hearts lightly, lightly lest they break.