The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAlcyone

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAlcyoneThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: AlcyoneAuthor: Archibald LampmanRelease date: October 2, 2007 [eBook #22833]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, V. L. Simpson and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions(www.canadiana.org))*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALCYONE ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: AlcyoneAuthor: Archibald LampmanRelease date: October 2, 2007 [eBook #22833]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, V. L. Simpson and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions(www.canadiana.org))

Title: Alcyone

Author: Archibald Lampman

Release date: October 2, 2007 [eBook #22833]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Thierry Alberto, V. L. Simpson and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions(www.canadiana.org))

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALCYONE ***

ALCYONEbyARCHIBALD LAMPMANOTTAWAJAMES OGILVY1899Edinburgh: T. and A.Constable, Printers to Her Majesty

byARCHIBALD LAMPMAN

OTTAWAJAMES OGILVY1899

Edinburgh: T. and A.Constable, Printers to Her Majesty

TO THE MEMORY OFMY FATHERHIMSELF A POETWHO FIRST INSTRUCTED MEIN THE ARTOF VERSE.

In the silent depth of space,Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,Glittering with a silver flameThrough eternity,Rolls a great and burning star,With a noble name,Alcyone!In the glorious chart of heavenIt is marked the first of seven;'Tis a Pleiad:And a hundred years of earthWith their long-forgotten deeds have come and gone,Since that tiny point of light,Once a splendour fierce and bright,Had its birthIn the star we gaze upon.It has travelled all that time—Thought has not a swifter flight—Through a region where no faintest gustOf life comes ever, but the power of nightDwells stupendous and sublime,Limitless and void and lonely,A region mute with age, and peopled onlyWith the dead and ruined dustOf worlds that lived eternities ago.Man! when thou dost think of this,And what our earth and its existence is,The half-blind toils since life began,The little aims, the little span,With what passion and what pride,And what hunger fierce and wide,Thou dost break beyond it all,Seeking for the spirit unconfinedIn the clear abyss of mindA shelter and a peace majestical.For what is life to thee,Turning toward the primal light,With that stern and silent face,If thou canst not beSomething radiant and august as night,Something wide as space?Therefore with a love and gratitude divineThou shalt cherish in thine heart for signA vision of the great and burning star,Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,Surging forth its silver flameThrough eternity;And thine inner heart shall ring and cryWith the music strange and high,The grandeur of its nameAlcyone!

In the silent depth of space,Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,Glittering with a silver flameThrough eternity,Rolls a great and burning star,With a noble name,Alcyone!

In the silent depth of space,

Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,

Glittering with a silver flame

Through eternity,

Rolls a great and burning star,

With a noble name,

Alcyone!

In the glorious chart of heavenIt is marked the first of seven;'Tis a Pleiad:And a hundred years of earthWith their long-forgotten deeds have come and gone,Since that tiny point of light,Once a splendour fierce and bright,Had its birthIn the star we gaze upon.

In the glorious chart of heaven

It is marked the first of seven;

'Tis a Pleiad:

And a hundred years of earth

With their long-forgotten deeds have come and gone,

Since that tiny point of light,

Once a splendour fierce and bright,

Had its birth

In the star we gaze upon.

It has travelled all that time—Thought has not a swifter flight—Through a region where no faintest gustOf life comes ever, but the power of nightDwells stupendous and sublime,Limitless and void and lonely,A region mute with age, and peopled onlyWith the dead and ruined dustOf worlds that lived eternities ago.

It has travelled all that time—

Thought has not a swifter flight—

Through a region where no faintest gust

Of life comes ever, but the power of night

Dwells stupendous and sublime,

Limitless and void and lonely,

A region mute with age, and peopled only

With the dead and ruined dust

Of worlds that lived eternities ago.

Man! when thou dost think of this,And what our earth and its existence is,The half-blind toils since life began,The little aims, the little span,With what passion and what pride,And what hunger fierce and wide,Thou dost break beyond it all,Seeking for the spirit unconfinedIn the clear abyss of mindA shelter and a peace majestical.For what is life to thee,Turning toward the primal light,With that stern and silent face,If thou canst not beSomething radiant and august as night,Something wide as space?

Man! when thou dost think of this,

And what our earth and its existence is,

The half-blind toils since life began,

The little aims, the little span,

With what passion and what pride,

And what hunger fierce and wide,

Thou dost break beyond it all,

Seeking for the spirit unconfined

In the clear abyss of mind

A shelter and a peace majestical.

For what is life to thee,

Turning toward the primal light,

With that stern and silent face,

If thou canst not be

Something radiant and august as night,

Something wide as space?

Therefore with a love and gratitude divineThou shalt cherish in thine heart for signA vision of the great and burning star,Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,Surging forth its silver flameThrough eternity;And thine inner heart shall ring and cryWith the music strange and high,The grandeur of its nameAlcyone!

Therefore with a love and gratitude divine

Thou shalt cherish in thine heart for sign

A vision of the great and burning star,

Immeasurably old, immeasurably far,

Surging forth its silver flame

Through eternity;

And thine inner heart shall ring and cry

With the music strange and high,

The grandeur of its name

Alcyone!

The sun falls warm: the southern winds awake:The air seethes upward with a steamy shiver:Each dip of the road is now a crystal lake,And every rut a little dancing river.Through great soft clouds that sunder overheadThe deep sky breaks as pearly blue as summer:Out of a cleft beside the river's bedFlaps the black crow, the first demure newcomer.The last seared drifts are eating fast awayWith glassy tinkle into glittering laces:Dogs lie asleep, and little children playWith tops and marbles in the sunbare places;And I that stroll with many a thoughtful pauseAlmost forget that winter ever was.

The sun falls warm: the southern winds awake:

The air seethes upward with a steamy shiver:

Each dip of the road is now a crystal lake,

And every rut a little dancing river.

Through great soft clouds that sunder overhead

The deep sky breaks as pearly blue as summer:

Out of a cleft beside the river's bed

Flaps the black crow, the first demure newcomer.

The last seared drifts are eating fast away

With glassy tinkle into glittering laces:

Dogs lie asleep, and little children play

With tops and marbles in the sunbare places;

And I that stroll with many a thoughtful pause

Almost forget that winter ever was.

Beside the pounding cataractsOf midnight streams unknown to us'Tis builded in the leafless tractsAnd valleys huge of Tartarus.Lurid and lofty and vast it seems;It hath no rounded name that rings,But I have heard it called in dreamsThe City of the End of Things.Its roofs and iron towers have grownNone knoweth how high within the night,But in its murky streets far downA flaming terrible and brightShakes all the stalking shadows there,Across the walls, across the floors,And shifts upon the upper airFrom out a thousand furnace doors;And all the while an awful soundKeeps roaring on continually,And crashes in the ceaseless roundOf a gigantic harmony.Through its grim depths re-echoingAnd all its weary height of walls,With measured roar and iron ring,The inhuman music lifts and falls.Where no thing rests and no man is,And only fire and night hold sway;The beat, the thunder and the hissCease not, and change not, night nor day.And moving at unheard commands,The abysses and vast fires between,Flit figures that with clanking handsObey a hideous routine;They are not flesh, they are not bone,They see not with the human eye,And from their iron lips is blownA dreadful and monotonous cry;And whoso of our mortal raceShould find that city unaware,Lean Death would smite him face to face,And blanch him with its venomed air:Or caught by the terrific spell,Each thread of memory snapt and cut,His soul would shrivel and its shellGo rattling like an empty nut.It was not always so, but once,In days that no man thinks upon,Fair voices echoed from its stones,The light above it leaped and shone:Once there were multitudes of men,That built that city in their pride,Until its might was made, and thenThey withered age by age and died.But now of that prodigious race,Three only in an iron tower,Set like carved idols face to face,Remain the masters of its power;And at the city gate a fourth,Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,Sits looking toward the lightless north,Beyond the reach of memories;Fast rooted to the lurid floor,A bulk that never moves a jot,In his pale body dwells no more,Or mind, or soul,—an idiot!But sometime in the end those threeShall perish and their hands be still,And with the master's touch shall fleeTheir incommunicable skill.A stillness absolute as deathAlong the slacking wheels shall lie,And, flagging at a single breath,The fires shall moulder out and die.The roar shall vanish at its height,And over that tremendous townThe silence of eternal nightShall gather close and settle down.All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,Shall be abandoned utterly,And into rust and dust shall fallFrom century to century;Nor ever living thing shall grow,Or trunk of tree, or blade of grass;No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,Nor sound of any foot shall pass:Alone of its accursèd state,One thing the hand of Time shall spare,For the grim Idiot at the gateIs deathless and eternal there.

Beside the pounding cataracts

Of midnight streams unknown to us

'Tis builded in the leafless tracts

And valleys huge of Tartarus.

Lurid and lofty and vast it seems;

It hath no rounded name that rings,

But I have heard it called in dreams

The City of the End of Things.

Its roofs and iron towers have grownNone knoweth how high within the night,But in its murky streets far downA flaming terrible and brightShakes all the stalking shadows there,Across the walls, across the floors,And shifts upon the upper airFrom out a thousand furnace doors;

Its roofs and iron towers have grown

None knoweth how high within the night,

But in its murky streets far down

A flaming terrible and bright

Shakes all the stalking shadows there,

Across the walls, across the floors,

And shifts upon the upper air

From out a thousand furnace doors;

And all the while an awful soundKeeps roaring on continually,And crashes in the ceaseless roundOf a gigantic harmony.Through its grim depths re-echoingAnd all its weary height of walls,With measured roar and iron ring,The inhuman music lifts and falls.Where no thing rests and no man is,And only fire and night hold sway;The beat, the thunder and the hissCease not, and change not, night nor day.

And all the while an awful sound

Keeps roaring on continually,

And crashes in the ceaseless round

Of a gigantic harmony.

Through its grim depths re-echoing

And all its weary height of walls,

With measured roar and iron ring,

The inhuman music lifts and falls.

Where no thing rests and no man is,

And only fire and night hold sway;

The beat, the thunder and the hiss

Cease not, and change not, night nor day.

And moving at unheard commands,The abysses and vast fires between,Flit figures that with clanking handsObey a hideous routine;They are not flesh, they are not bone,They see not with the human eye,And from their iron lips is blownA dreadful and monotonous cry;And whoso of our mortal raceShould find that city unaware,Lean Death would smite him face to face,And blanch him with its venomed air:Or caught by the terrific spell,Each thread of memory snapt and cut,His soul would shrivel and its shellGo rattling like an empty nut.

And moving at unheard commands,

The abysses and vast fires between,

Flit figures that with clanking hands

Obey a hideous routine;

They are not flesh, they are not bone,

They see not with the human eye,

And from their iron lips is blown

A dreadful and monotonous cry;

And whoso of our mortal race

Should find that city unaware,

Lean Death would smite him face to face,

And blanch him with its venomed air:

Or caught by the terrific spell,

Each thread of memory snapt and cut,

His soul would shrivel and its shell

Go rattling like an empty nut.

It was not always so, but once,In days that no man thinks upon,Fair voices echoed from its stones,The light above it leaped and shone:Once there were multitudes of men,That built that city in their pride,Until its might was made, and thenThey withered age by age and died.But now of that prodigious race,Three only in an iron tower,Set like carved idols face to face,Remain the masters of its power;And at the city gate a fourth,Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,Sits looking toward the lightless north,Beyond the reach of memories;Fast rooted to the lurid floor,A bulk that never moves a jot,In his pale body dwells no more,Or mind, or soul,—an idiot!

It was not always so, but once,

In days that no man thinks upon,

Fair voices echoed from its stones,

The light above it leaped and shone:

Once there were multitudes of men,

That built that city in their pride,

Until its might was made, and then

They withered age by age and died.

But now of that prodigious race,

Three only in an iron tower,

Set like carved idols face to face,

Remain the masters of its power;

And at the city gate a fourth,

Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,

Sits looking toward the lightless north,

Beyond the reach of memories;

Fast rooted to the lurid floor,

A bulk that never moves a jot,

In his pale body dwells no more,

Or mind, or soul,—an idiot!

But sometime in the end those threeShall perish and their hands be still,And with the master's touch shall fleeTheir incommunicable skill.A stillness absolute as deathAlong the slacking wheels shall lie,And, flagging at a single breath,The fires shall moulder out and die.The roar shall vanish at its height,And over that tremendous townThe silence of eternal nightShall gather close and settle down.All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,Shall be abandoned utterly,And into rust and dust shall fallFrom century to century;Nor ever living thing shall grow,Or trunk of tree, or blade of grass;No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,Nor sound of any foot shall pass:Alone of its accursèd state,One thing the hand of Time shall spare,For the grim Idiot at the gateIs deathless and eternal there.

But sometime in the end those three

Shall perish and their hands be still,

And with the master's touch shall flee

Their incommunicable skill.

A stillness absolute as death

Along the slacking wheels shall lie,

And, flagging at a single breath,

The fires shall moulder out and die.

The roar shall vanish at its height,

And over that tremendous town

The silence of eternal night

Shall gather close and settle down.

All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,

Shall be abandoned utterly,

And into rust and dust shall fall

From century to century;

Nor ever living thing shall grow,

Or trunk of tree, or blade of grass;

No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,

Nor sound of any foot shall pass:

Alone of its accursèd state,

One thing the hand of Time shall spare,

For the grim Idiot at the gate

Is deathless and eternal there.

Fair little scout, that when the iron yearChanges, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rearThat song of silvery triumph blithe and clear;Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow,We hungered for some surer touch, and lo!One morning we awake, and thou art here.And thousands of frail-stemmed hepaticas,With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues,Light sleepers, ready for the golden news,Spring at thy note beside the forest ways—Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour—The classic lyrist and the classic flower.

Fair little scout, that when the iron year

Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,

Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,

Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear

That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear;

Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow,

We hungered for some surer touch, and lo!

One morning we awake, and thou art here.

And thousands of frail-stemmed hepaticas,

With their crisp leaves and pure and perfect hues,

Light sleepers, ready for the golden news,

Spring at thy note beside the forest ways—

Next to thy song, the first to deck the hour—

The classic lyrist and the classic flower.

'Tis a land where no hurricane falls,But the infinite azure regardsIts waters for ever, its wallsOf granite, its limitless swards;Where the fens to their innermost poolWith the chorus of May are aring,And the glades are wind-winnowed and coolWith perpetual spring;Where folded and half withdrawnThe delicate wind-flowers blow,And the bloodroot kindles at dawnHer spiritual taper of snow;Where the limits are met and spannedBy a waste that no husbandman tills,And the earth-old pine forests standIn the hollows of hills.'Tis the land that our babies behold,Deep gazing when none are aware;And the great-hearted seers of oldAnd the poets have known it, and thereMade halt by the well-heads of truthOn their difficult pilgrimageFrom the rose-ruddy gardens of youthTo the summits of age.Now too, as of old, it is sweetWith a presence remote and serene;Still its byways are pressed by the feetOf the mother immortal, its queen:The huntress whose tresses, flung free,And her fillets of gold, upon earth,They only have honour to seeWho are dreamers from birth.In her calm and her beauty supreme,They have found her at dawn or at eve,By the marge of some motionless stream,Or where shadows rebuild or unweaveIn a murmurous alley of pine,Looking upward in silent surprise,A figure, slow-moving, divine,With inscrutable eyes.

'Tis a land where no hurricane falls,

But the infinite azure regards

Its waters for ever, its walls

Of granite, its limitless swards;

Where the fens to their innermost pool

With the chorus of May are aring,

And the glades are wind-winnowed and cool

With perpetual spring;

Where folded and half withdrawnThe delicate wind-flowers blow,And the bloodroot kindles at dawnHer spiritual taper of snow;Where the limits are met and spannedBy a waste that no husbandman tills,And the earth-old pine forests standIn the hollows of hills.

Where folded and half withdrawn

The delicate wind-flowers blow,

And the bloodroot kindles at dawn

Her spiritual taper of snow;

Where the limits are met and spanned

By a waste that no husbandman tills,

And the earth-old pine forests stand

In the hollows of hills.

'Tis the land that our babies behold,Deep gazing when none are aware;And the great-hearted seers of oldAnd the poets have known it, and thereMade halt by the well-heads of truthOn their difficult pilgrimageFrom the rose-ruddy gardens of youthTo the summits of age.

'Tis the land that our babies behold,

Deep gazing when none are aware;

And the great-hearted seers of old

And the poets have known it, and there

Made halt by the well-heads of truth

On their difficult pilgrimage

From the rose-ruddy gardens of youth

To the summits of age.

Now too, as of old, it is sweetWith a presence remote and serene;Still its byways are pressed by the feetOf the mother immortal, its queen:The huntress whose tresses, flung free,And her fillets of gold, upon earth,They only have honour to seeWho are dreamers from birth.

Now too, as of old, it is sweet

With a presence remote and serene;

Still its byways are pressed by the feet

Of the mother immortal, its queen:

The huntress whose tresses, flung free,

And her fillets of gold, upon earth,

They only have honour to see

Who are dreamers from birth.

In her calm and her beauty supreme,They have found her at dawn or at eve,By the marge of some motionless stream,Or where shadows rebuild or unweaveIn a murmurous alley of pine,Looking upward in silent surprise,A figure, slow-moving, divine,With inscrutable eyes.

In her calm and her beauty supreme,

They have found her at dawn or at eve,

By the marge of some motionless stream,

Or where shadows rebuild or unweave

In a murmurous alley of pine,

Looking upward in silent surprise,

A figure, slow-moving, divine,

With inscrutable eyes.

Where swallows and wheatfields are,O hamlet brown and still,O river that shineth far,By meadow, pier, and mill:O endless sunsteeped plain,With forests in dim blue shrouds,And little wisps of rain,Falling from far-off clouds:I come from the choking airOf passion, doubt, and strife,With a spirit and mind laid bareTo your healing breadth of life:O fruitful and sacred ground,O sunlight and summer sky,Absorb me and fold me round,For broken and tired am I.

Where swallows and wheatfields are,O hamlet brown and still,O river that shineth far,By meadow, pier, and mill:

Where swallows and wheatfields are,

O hamlet brown and still,

O river that shineth far,

By meadow, pier, and mill:

O endless sunsteeped plain,With forests in dim blue shrouds,And little wisps of rain,Falling from far-off clouds:

O endless sunsteeped plain,

With forests in dim blue shrouds,

And little wisps of rain,

Falling from far-off clouds:

I come from the choking airOf passion, doubt, and strife,With a spirit and mind laid bareTo your healing breadth of life:

I come from the choking air

Of passion, doubt, and strife,

With a spirit and mind laid bare

To your healing breadth of life:

O fruitful and sacred ground,O sunlight and summer sky,Absorb me and fold me round,For broken and tired am I.

O fruitful and sacred ground,

O sunlight and summer sky,

Absorb me and fold me round,

For broken and tired am I.

How deep the April night is in its noon,The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!The earth lies hushed with expectation; brightAbove the world's dark border burns the moon,Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewnWith flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth,The moist smell of the unimprisoned earthComes up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon,Ah, soon, the teeming triumph! At my feetThe river with its stately sweep and wheelMoves on slow-motioned, luminous, grey like steel.From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam,Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet,The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dream.

How deep the April night is in its noon,

The hopeful, solemn, many-murmured night!

The earth lies hushed with expectation; bright

Above the world's dark border burns the moon,

Yellow and large; from forest floorways, strewn

With flowers, and fields that tingle with new birth,

The moist smell of the unimprisoned earth

Comes up, a sigh, a haunting promise. Soon,

Ah, soon, the teeming triumph! At my feet

The river with its stately sweep and wheel

Moves on slow-motioned, luminous, grey like steel.

From fields far off whose watery hollows gleam,

Aye with blown throats that make the long hours sweet,

The sleepless toads are murmuring in their dream.

O differing human heart,Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes,Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech,Draw me, and stir within my soulThat subtle ineradicable longingFor tender comradeship?It is because I cannot all at once,Through the half-lights and phantom-haunted mistsThat separate and enshroud us life from life,Discern the nearness or the strangeness of thy pathsNor plumb thy depths.I am like one that comes alone at nightTo a strange stream, and by an unknown fordStands, and for a moment yearns and shrinks,Being ignorant of the water, though so quiet it is,So softly murmurous,So silvered by the familiar moon.

O differing human heart,

Why is it that I tremble when thine eyes,

Thy human eyes and beautiful human speech,

Draw me, and stir within my soul

That subtle ineradicable longing

For tender comradeship?

It is because I cannot all at once,

Through the half-lights and phantom-haunted mists

That separate and enshroud us life from life,

Discern the nearness or the strangeness of thy paths

Nor plumb thy depths.

I am like one that comes alone at night

To a strange stream, and by an unknown ford

Stands, and for a moment yearns and shrinks,

Being ignorant of the water, though so quiet it is,

So softly murmurous,

So silvered by the familiar moon.

O little one, daughter, my dearest,With your smiles and your beautiful curls,And your laughter, the brightest and clearest,O gravest and gayest of girls;With your hands that are softer than roses,And your lips that are lighter than flowers,And that innocent brow that disclosesA wisdom more lovely than ours;With your locks that encumber, or scatterIn a thousand mercurial gleams,And those feet whose impetuous patterI hear and remember in dreams;With your manner of motherly duty,When you play with your dolls and are wise;With your wonders of speech, and the beautyIn your little imperious eyes;When I hear you so silverly ringingYour welcome from chamber or stair.When you run to me, kissing and clinging,So radiant, so rosily fair;I bend like an ogre above you;I bury my face in your curls;I fold you, I clasp you, I love you.O baby, queen-blossom of girls!

O little one, daughter, my dearest,With your smiles and your beautiful curls,And your laughter, the brightest and clearest,O gravest and gayest of girls;

O little one, daughter, my dearest,

With your smiles and your beautiful curls,

And your laughter, the brightest and clearest,

O gravest and gayest of girls;

With your hands that are softer than roses,And your lips that are lighter than flowers,And that innocent brow that disclosesA wisdom more lovely than ours;

With your hands that are softer than roses,

And your lips that are lighter than flowers,

And that innocent brow that discloses

A wisdom more lovely than ours;

With your locks that encumber, or scatterIn a thousand mercurial gleams,And those feet whose impetuous patterI hear and remember in dreams;

With your locks that encumber, or scatter

In a thousand mercurial gleams,

And those feet whose impetuous patter

I hear and remember in dreams;

With your manner of motherly duty,When you play with your dolls and are wise;With your wonders of speech, and the beautyIn your little imperious eyes;

With your manner of motherly duty,

When you play with your dolls and are wise;

With your wonders of speech, and the beauty

In your little imperious eyes;

When I hear you so silverly ringingYour welcome from chamber or stair.When you run to me, kissing and clinging,So radiant, so rosily fair;

When I hear you so silverly ringing

Your welcome from chamber or stair.

When you run to me, kissing and clinging,

So radiant, so rosily fair;

I bend like an ogre above you;I bury my face in your curls;I fold you, I clasp you, I love you.O baby, queen-blossom of girls!

I bend like an ogre above you;

I bury my face in your curls;

I fold you, I clasp you, I love you.

O baby, queen-blossom of girls!

Scarcely a breath about the rocky stairMoved, but the growing tide from verge to verge,Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air,Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge.A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathedThe dripping walls and portal granite-stepped,And sank into the inner court, and creptFrom column unto column thickly wreathed.In that dead hour of darkness before dawn,When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of deathAre strengthened,—with lips white and drawnAnd feverish lids and scarcely moving breath,The hapless mother, tender Chione,Beside the earth-cold figure of her child,After long bursts of weeping sharp and wildLay broken, silent in her agony.At first in waking horror racked and boundShe lay, and then a gradual stupor grewAbout her soul and wrapped her round and roundLike death, and then she sprang to life anewOut of a darkness clammy as the tomb;And, touched by memory or some spirit hand,She seemed to keep a pathway down a landOf monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom.A waste of cloudy and perpetual night—And yet there seemed a teeming presence thereOf life that gathered onward in thick flight,Unseen, but multitudinous. AwareOf something also on her path she wasThat drew her heart forth with a tender cry.She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye,And called on the foul shapes to let her pass.For down the sloping darkness far aheadShe saw a little figure slight and small,With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread,Running at frightened speed; and it would fallAnd rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleetThe cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wistThe tender eyes were blinded by the mist,And the rough stones were bruising the small feet.And when she lifted a keen cry and claveForthright the gathering horror of the place,Mad with her love and pity, a dark waveOf clapping shadows swept about her face,And beat her back, and when she gained her breath,Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steamWas rising from a mute and murky stream,As cold and cavernous as the eye of death.And near the ripple stood the little shade,And many hovering ghosts drew near him, someThat seemed to peer out of the mist and fadeWith eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb;But others closed him round with eager sighsAnd sweet insistence, striving to caressAnd comfort him; but grieving none the less,He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries.And silently across the horrid flow,The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike armsOf him that oared it, dumbly to and fro,Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarmsLeaped in and passed, but myriads more behindCrowded the dismal beaches. One might hearA tumult of entreaty thin and clearRise like the whistle of a winter wind.And still the little figure stood besideThe hideous stream, and toward the whispering prowHeld forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried,Now to the awful ferryman, and nowTo her that battled with the shades in vain.Sometimes impending over all her sightThe spongy dark and the phantasmal flightOf things half-shapen passed and hid the plain.And sometimes in a gust a sort of windDrove by, and where its power was hurled,She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned,Those gloomy meadows of the under world,Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees,And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore,Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'erBy countless melancholy companies.And farther still upon the utmost rimOf the drear waste, whereto the roadways led,She saw in piling outline, huge and dim,The walled and towerèd dwellings of the deadAnd the grim house of Hades. Then she brokeOnce more fierce-footed through the noisome press;But ere she reached the goal of her distress,Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke.It seemed as she had been entombed for years,And came again to living with a start.There was an awful echoing in her earsAnd a great deadness pressing at her heart.She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze,Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space,And then she touched the little lifeless face,And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees.And round her still the silence seemed to teemWith the foul shadows of her dream beguiled—No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream,But her child called for her; her child, her child!—She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare,And knelt low down, and bending her fair headUnto the lower gods who rule the dead,Touched them with tender homage and this prayer:O gloomy masters of the dark demesne,Hades, and thou whom the dread deityBore once from earthly Enna for his queen,Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone,Grant me one boon;'Tis not for life I pray,Not life, but quiet death; and that soon, soon!Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay,This net of useless woe.O mournful mother, sad Persephone,Be mindful, let me go!How shall he journey to the dismal beach,Or win the ear of Charon, without oneTo keep him and stand by him, sure of speech?He is so little, and has just begunTo use his feetAnd speak a few small words,And all his daily usage has been sweetAs the soft nesting ways of tender birds.How shall he fare at allAcross that grim inhospitable land,If I too be not by to hold his hand,And help him if he fall?And then before the gloomy judges set,How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bearTo see his tender cheeks with weeping wet,Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair!I could not rest,Nor live with patient mind,Though knowing what is fated must be best;But surely thou art more than mortal kind,And thou canst feel my woe,All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine;He is so little, mother Proserpine,He needs me, let me go!Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way,And left the half of all her heart unsaid,And a great languor seized her, and she lay,Soft fallen, by the little silent head.Her numbèd lips had passed beyond control,Her mind could neither plan nor reason more,She saw dark waters and an unknown shore,And the grey shadows crept about her soul.Again through darkness on an evil landShe seemed to enter but without distress.A little spirit led her by the hand,And her wide heart was warm with tenderness.Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care,Murmured a moment in soft mother-tones,And so fell silent. From their sombre thronesAlready the grim gods had heard her prayer.

Scarcely a breath about the rocky stair

Moved, but the growing tide from verge to verge,

Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air,

Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge.

A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathed

The dripping walls and portal granite-stepped,

And sank into the inner court, and crept

From column unto column thickly wreathed.

In that dead hour of darkness before dawn,When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of deathAre strengthened,—with lips white and drawnAnd feverish lids and scarcely moving breath,The hapless mother, tender Chione,Beside the earth-cold figure of her child,After long bursts of weeping sharp and wildLay broken, silent in her agony.At first in waking horror racked and boundShe lay, and then a gradual stupor grewAbout her soul and wrapped her round and roundLike death, and then she sprang to life anewOut of a darkness clammy as the tomb;And, touched by memory or some spirit hand,She seemed to keep a pathway down a landOf monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom.

In that dead hour of darkness before dawn,

When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of death

Are strengthened,—with lips white and drawn

And feverish lids and scarcely moving breath,

The hapless mother, tender Chione,

Beside the earth-cold figure of her child,

After long bursts of weeping sharp and wild

Lay broken, silent in her agony.

At first in waking horror racked and bound

She lay, and then a gradual stupor grew

About her soul and wrapped her round and round

Like death, and then she sprang to life anew

Out of a darkness clammy as the tomb;

And, touched by memory or some spirit hand,

She seemed to keep a pathway down a land

Of monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom.

A waste of cloudy and perpetual night—And yet there seemed a teeming presence thereOf life that gathered onward in thick flight,Unseen, but multitudinous. AwareOf something also on her path she wasThat drew her heart forth with a tender cry.She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye,And called on the foul shapes to let her pass.

A waste of cloudy and perpetual night—

And yet there seemed a teeming presence there

Of life that gathered onward in thick flight,

Unseen, but multitudinous. Aware

Of something also on her path she was

That drew her heart forth with a tender cry.

She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye,

And called on the foul shapes to let her pass.

For down the sloping darkness far aheadShe saw a little figure slight and small,With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread,Running at frightened speed; and it would fallAnd rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleetThe cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wistThe tender eyes were blinded by the mist,And the rough stones were bruising the small feet.And when she lifted a keen cry and claveForthright the gathering horror of the place,Mad with her love and pity, a dark waveOf clapping shadows swept about her face,And beat her back, and when she gained her breath,Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steamWas rising from a mute and murky stream,As cold and cavernous as the eye of death.

For down the sloping darkness far ahead

She saw a little figure slight and small,

With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread,

Running at frightened speed; and it would fall

And rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleet

The cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wist

The tender eyes were blinded by the mist,

And the rough stones were bruising the small feet.

And when she lifted a keen cry and clave

Forthright the gathering horror of the place,

Mad with her love and pity, a dark wave

Of clapping shadows swept about her face,

And beat her back, and when she gained her breath,

Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steam

Was rising from a mute and murky stream,

As cold and cavernous as the eye of death.

And near the ripple stood the little shade,And many hovering ghosts drew near him, someThat seemed to peer out of the mist and fadeWith eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb;But others closed him round with eager sighsAnd sweet insistence, striving to caressAnd comfort him; but grieving none the less,He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries.

And near the ripple stood the little shade,

And many hovering ghosts drew near him, some

That seemed to peer out of the mist and fade

With eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb;

But others closed him round with eager sighs

And sweet insistence, striving to caress

And comfort him; but grieving none the less,

He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries.

And silently across the horrid flow,The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike armsOf him that oared it, dumbly to and fro,Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarmsLeaped in and passed, but myriads more behindCrowded the dismal beaches. One might hearA tumult of entreaty thin and clearRise like the whistle of a winter wind.

And silently across the horrid flow,

The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike arms

Of him that oared it, dumbly to and fro,

Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarms

Leaped in and passed, but myriads more behind

Crowded the dismal beaches. One might hear

A tumult of entreaty thin and clear

Rise like the whistle of a winter wind.

And still the little figure stood besideThe hideous stream, and toward the whispering prowHeld forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried,Now to the awful ferryman, and nowTo her that battled with the shades in vain.Sometimes impending over all her sightThe spongy dark and the phantasmal flightOf things half-shapen passed and hid the plain.

And still the little figure stood beside

The hideous stream, and toward the whispering prow

Held forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried,

Now to the awful ferryman, and now

To her that battled with the shades in vain.

Sometimes impending over all her sight

The spongy dark and the phantasmal flight

Of things half-shapen passed and hid the plain.

And sometimes in a gust a sort of windDrove by, and where its power was hurled,She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned,Those gloomy meadows of the under world,Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees,And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore,Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'erBy countless melancholy companies.

And sometimes in a gust a sort of wind

Drove by, and where its power was hurled,

She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned,

Those gloomy meadows of the under world,

Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees,

And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore,

Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'er

By countless melancholy companies.

And farther still upon the utmost rimOf the drear waste, whereto the roadways led,She saw in piling outline, huge and dim,The walled and towerèd dwellings of the deadAnd the grim house of Hades. Then she brokeOnce more fierce-footed through the noisome press;But ere she reached the goal of her distress,Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke.

And farther still upon the utmost rim

Of the drear waste, whereto the roadways led,

She saw in piling outline, huge and dim,

The walled and towerèd dwellings of the dead

And the grim house of Hades. Then she broke

Once more fierce-footed through the noisome press;

But ere she reached the goal of her distress,

Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke.

It seemed as she had been entombed for years,And came again to living with a start.There was an awful echoing in her earsAnd a great deadness pressing at her heart.She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze,Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space,And then she touched the little lifeless face,And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees.

It seemed as she had been entombed for years,

And came again to living with a start.

There was an awful echoing in her ears

And a great deadness pressing at her heart.

She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze,

Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space,

And then she touched the little lifeless face,

And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees.

And round her still the silence seemed to teemWith the foul shadows of her dream beguiled—No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream,But her child called for her; her child, her child!—She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare,And knelt low down, and bending her fair headUnto the lower gods who rule the dead,Touched them with tender homage and this prayer:

And round her still the silence seemed to teem

With the foul shadows of her dream beguiled—

No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream,

But her child called for her; her child, her child!—

She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare,

And knelt low down, and bending her fair head

Unto the lower gods who rule the dead,

Touched them with tender homage and this prayer:

O gloomy masters of the dark demesne,Hades, and thou whom the dread deityBore once from earthly Enna for his queen,Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone,Grant me one boon;'Tis not for life I pray,Not life, but quiet death; and that soon, soon!Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay,This net of useless woe.O mournful mother, sad Persephone,Be mindful, let me go!

O gloomy masters of the dark demesne,

Hades, and thou whom the dread deity

Bore once from earthly Enna for his queen,

Beloved of Demeter, pale Persephone,

Grant me one boon;

'Tis not for life I pray,

Not life, but quiet death; and that soon, soon!

Loose from my soul this heavy weight of clay,

This net of useless woe.

O mournful mother, sad Persephone,

Be mindful, let me go!

How shall he journey to the dismal beach,Or win the ear of Charon, without oneTo keep him and stand by him, sure of speech?He is so little, and has just begunTo use his feetAnd speak a few small words,And all his daily usage has been sweetAs the soft nesting ways of tender birds.How shall he fare at allAcross that grim inhospitable land,If I too be not by to hold his hand,And help him if he fall?

How shall he journey to the dismal beach,

Or win the ear of Charon, without one

To keep him and stand by him, sure of speech?

He is so little, and has just begun

To use his feet

And speak a few small words,

And all his daily usage has been sweet

As the soft nesting ways of tender birds.

How shall he fare at all

Across that grim inhospitable land,

If I too be not by to hold his hand,

And help him if he fall?

And then before the gloomy judges set,How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bearTo see his tender cheeks with weeping wet,Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair!I could not rest,Nor live with patient mind,Though knowing what is fated must be best;But surely thou art more than mortal kind,And thou canst feel my woe,All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine;He is so little, mother Proserpine,He needs me, let me go!

And then before the gloomy judges set,

How shall he answer? Oh, I cannot bear

To see his tender cheeks with weeping wet,

Or hear the sobbing cry of his despair!

I could not rest,

Nor live with patient mind,

Though knowing what is fated must be best;

But surely thou art more than mortal kind,

And thou canst feel my woe,

All-pitying, all-observant, all-divine;

He is so little, mother Proserpine,

He needs me, let me go!

Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way,And left the half of all her heart unsaid,And a great languor seized her, and she lay,Soft fallen, by the little silent head.Her numbèd lips had passed beyond control,Her mind could neither plan nor reason more,She saw dark waters and an unknown shore,And the grey shadows crept about her soul.

Thus far she prayed, and then she lost her way,

And left the half of all her heart unsaid,

And a great languor seized her, and she lay,

Soft fallen, by the little silent head.

Her numbèd lips had passed beyond control,

Her mind could neither plan nor reason more,

She saw dark waters and an unknown shore,

And the grey shadows crept about her soul.

Again through darkness on an evil landShe seemed to enter but without distress.A little spirit led her by the hand,And her wide heart was warm with tenderness.Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care,Murmured a moment in soft mother-tones,And so fell silent. From their sombre thronesAlready the grim gods had heard her prayer.

Again through darkness on an evil land

She seemed to enter but without distress.

A little spirit led her by the hand,

And her wide heart was warm with tenderness.

Her lips, still moving, conscious of one care,

Murmured a moment in soft mother-tones,

And so fell silent. From their sombre thrones

Already the grim gods had heard her prayer.

Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro,Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field,With that quiet voice of thine that would not yieldIts meaning, though I mused and sought it so?But now I am content to let it go,To lie at length and watch the swallows pass,As blithe and restful as this quiet grass,Content only to listen and to knowThat years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine,And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees,Still listening thus; haply at last to seize,And render in some happier verse divineThat friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine,That perfect utterance of content and ease.

Didst thou not tease and fret me to and fro,

Sweet spirit of this summer-circled field,

With that quiet voice of thine that would not yield

Its meaning, though I mused and sought it so?

But now I am content to let it go,

To lie at length and watch the swallows pass,

As blithe and restful as this quiet grass,

Content only to listen and to know

That years shall turn, and summers yet shall shine,

And I shall lie beneath these swaying trees,

Still listening thus; haply at last to seize,

And render in some happier verse divine

That friendly, homely, haunting speech of thine,

That perfect utterance of content and ease.

Mad with love and ladenWith immortal pain,Pan pursued a maiden—Pan, the god—in vain.For when Pan had nearlyTouched her, wild to plead,She was gone—and clearlyIn her place a reed!Long the god, unwitting,Through the valley strayed;Then at last, submitting,Cut the reed, and made,Deftly fashioned, sevenPipes, and poured his painUnto earth and heavenIn a piercing strain.So with god and poet;Beauty lures them on,Flies, and ere they know itLike a wraith is gone.Then they seek to borrowPleasure still from wrong,And with smiling sorrowTurn it to a song.

Mad with love and ladenWith immortal pain,Pan pursued a maiden—Pan, the god—in vain.

Mad with love and laden

With immortal pain,

Pan pursued a maiden—

Pan, the god—in vain.

For when Pan had nearlyTouched her, wild to plead,She was gone—and clearlyIn her place a reed!

For when Pan had nearly

Touched her, wild to plead,

She was gone—and clearly

In her place a reed!

Long the god, unwitting,Through the valley strayed;Then at last, submitting,Cut the reed, and made,

Long the god, unwitting,

Through the valley strayed;

Then at last, submitting,

Cut the reed, and made,

Deftly fashioned, sevenPipes, and poured his painUnto earth and heavenIn a piercing strain.

Deftly fashioned, seven

Pipes, and poured his pain

Unto earth and heaven

In a piercing strain.

So with god and poet;Beauty lures them on,Flies, and ere they know itLike a wraith is gone.

So with god and poet;

Beauty lures them on,

Flies, and ere they know it

Like a wraith is gone.

Then they seek to borrowPleasure still from wrong,And with smiling sorrowTurn it to a song.

Then they seek to borrow

Pleasure still from wrong,

And with smiling sorrow

Turn it to a song.

O gentle sister spirit, when you smileMy soul is like a lonely coral isle,An islet shadowed by a single palm,Ringed round with reef and foam, but inly calm.And all day long I listen to the speechOf wind and water on my charmèd beach:I see far off beyond mine outer shoreThe ocean flash, and hear his harmless roar.And in the night-time when the glorious sun,With all his life and all his light, is done,The wind still murmurs in my slender tree,And shakes the moonlight on the silver sea.

O gentle sister spirit, when you smileMy soul is like a lonely coral isle,An islet shadowed by a single palm,Ringed round with reef and foam, but inly calm.

O gentle sister spirit, when you smile

My soul is like a lonely coral isle,

An islet shadowed by a single palm,

Ringed round with reef and foam, but inly calm.

And all day long I listen to the speechOf wind and water on my charmèd beach:I see far off beyond mine outer shoreThe ocean flash, and hear his harmless roar.

And all day long I listen to the speech

Of wind and water on my charmèd beach:

I see far off beyond mine outer shore

The ocean flash, and hear his harmless roar.

And in the night-time when the glorious sun,With all his life and all his light, is done,The wind still murmurs in my slender tree,And shakes the moonlight on the silver sea.

And in the night-time when the glorious sun,

With all his life and all his light, is done,

The wind still murmurs in my slender tree,

And shakes the moonlight on the silver sea.

By a void and soundless riverOn the outer edge of space,Where the body comes not ever,But the absent dream hath place,Stands a city, tall and quiet,And its air is sweet and dim;Never sound of grief or riotMakes it mad, or makes it grim.And the tender skies thereoverNeither sun, nor star, behold—Only dusk it hath for cover,—But a glamour soft with gold,Through a mist of dreamier essenceThan the dew of twilight, smilesOn strange shafts and domes and crescents,Lifting into eerie piles.In its courts and hallowed placesDreams of distant worlds arise,Shadows of transfigured faces,Glimpses of immortal eyes,Echoes of serenest pleasure,Notes of perfect speech that fall,Through an air of endless leisure,Marvellously musical.And I wander there at even,Sometimes when my heart is clear,When a wider round of heavenAnd a vaster world are near,When from many a shadow steepleSounds of dreamy bells begin,And I love the gentle peopleThat my spirit finds therein.Men of a diviner makingThan the sons of pride and strife,Quick with love and pity, breakingFrom a knowledge old as life;Women of a spiritual rareness,Whom old passion and old woeMoulded to a slenderer fairnessThan the dearest shapes we know.In its domed and towered centreLies a garden wide and fair,Open for the soul to enter,And the watchful townsmen thereGreet the stranger gloomed and frettingFrom this world of stormy hands,With a look that deals forgettingAnd a touch that understands.For they see with power, not borrowedFrom a record taught or told,But they loved and laughed and sorrowedIn a thousand worlds of old;Now they rest and dream for ever,And with hearts serene and wholeSee the struggle, the old fever,Clear as on a painted scroll.Wandering by that grey and solemnWater, with its ghostly quays—Vistas of vast arch and column,Shadowed by unearthly trees—Biddings of sweet power compel me,And I go with bated breath,Listening to the tales they tell me,Parables of Life and Death.In a tongue that once was spoken,Ere the world was cooled by Time,When the spirit flowed unbrokenThrough the flesh, and the SublimeMade the eyes of men far-seeing,And their souls as pure as rain,They declare the ends of being,And the sacred need of pain.For they know the sweetest reasonsFor the products most malign—They can tell the paths and seasonsOf the farthest suns that shine.How the moth-wing's iridescenceBy an inward plan was wrought,And they read me curious lessonsIn the secret ways of thought.When day turns, and over heavenTo the balmy western vergeSail the victor fleets of even,And the pilot stars emerge,Then my city rounds and rises,Like a vapour formed afar,And its sudden girth surprises,And its shadowy gates unbar.Dreamy crowds are moving yonderIn a faint and phantom blue;Through the dusk I lean, and wonderIf their winsome shapes are true;But in veiling indecisionCome my questions back again—Which is real? The fleeting vision?Or the fleeting world of men?

By a void and soundless river

On the outer edge of space,

Where the body comes not ever,

But the absent dream hath place,

Stands a city, tall and quiet,

And its air is sweet and dim;

Never sound of grief or riot

Makes it mad, or makes it grim.

And the tender skies thereoverNeither sun, nor star, behold—Only dusk it hath for cover,—But a glamour soft with gold,Through a mist of dreamier essenceThan the dew of twilight, smilesOn strange shafts and domes and crescents,Lifting into eerie piles.

And the tender skies thereover

Neither sun, nor star, behold—

Only dusk it hath for cover,—

But a glamour soft with gold,

Through a mist of dreamier essence

Than the dew of twilight, smiles

On strange shafts and domes and crescents,

Lifting into eerie piles.

In its courts and hallowed placesDreams of distant worlds arise,Shadows of transfigured faces,Glimpses of immortal eyes,Echoes of serenest pleasure,Notes of perfect speech that fall,Through an air of endless leisure,Marvellously musical.

In its courts and hallowed places

Dreams of distant worlds arise,

Shadows of transfigured faces,

Glimpses of immortal eyes,

Echoes of serenest pleasure,

Notes of perfect speech that fall,

Through an air of endless leisure,

Marvellously musical.

And I wander there at even,Sometimes when my heart is clear,When a wider round of heavenAnd a vaster world are near,When from many a shadow steepleSounds of dreamy bells begin,And I love the gentle peopleThat my spirit finds therein.

And I wander there at even,

Sometimes when my heart is clear,

When a wider round of heaven

And a vaster world are near,

When from many a shadow steeple

Sounds of dreamy bells begin,

And I love the gentle people

That my spirit finds therein.

Men of a diviner makingThan the sons of pride and strife,Quick with love and pity, breakingFrom a knowledge old as life;Women of a spiritual rareness,Whom old passion and old woeMoulded to a slenderer fairnessThan the dearest shapes we know.

Men of a diviner making

Than the sons of pride and strife,

Quick with love and pity, breaking

From a knowledge old as life;

Women of a spiritual rareness,

Whom old passion and old woe

Moulded to a slenderer fairness

Than the dearest shapes we know.

In its domed and towered centreLies a garden wide and fair,Open for the soul to enter,And the watchful townsmen thereGreet the stranger gloomed and frettingFrom this world of stormy hands,With a look that deals forgettingAnd a touch that understands.

In its domed and towered centre

Lies a garden wide and fair,

Open for the soul to enter,

And the watchful townsmen there

Greet the stranger gloomed and fretting

From this world of stormy hands,

With a look that deals forgetting

And a touch that understands.

For they see with power, not borrowedFrom a record taught or told,But they loved and laughed and sorrowedIn a thousand worlds of old;Now they rest and dream for ever,And with hearts serene and wholeSee the struggle, the old fever,Clear as on a painted scroll.

For they see with power, not borrowed

From a record taught or told,

But they loved and laughed and sorrowed

In a thousand worlds of old;

Now they rest and dream for ever,

And with hearts serene and whole

See the struggle, the old fever,

Clear as on a painted scroll.

Wandering by that grey and solemnWater, with its ghostly quays—Vistas of vast arch and column,Shadowed by unearthly trees—Biddings of sweet power compel me,And I go with bated breath,Listening to the tales they tell me,Parables of Life and Death.

Wandering by that grey and solemn

Water, with its ghostly quays—

Vistas of vast arch and column,

Shadowed by unearthly trees—

Biddings of sweet power compel me,

And I go with bated breath,

Listening to the tales they tell me,

Parables of Life and Death.

In a tongue that once was spoken,Ere the world was cooled by Time,When the spirit flowed unbrokenThrough the flesh, and the SublimeMade the eyes of men far-seeing,And their souls as pure as rain,They declare the ends of being,And the sacred need of pain.

In a tongue that once was spoken,

Ere the world was cooled by Time,

When the spirit flowed unbroken

Through the flesh, and the Sublime

Made the eyes of men far-seeing,

And their souls as pure as rain,

They declare the ends of being,

And the sacred need of pain.

For they know the sweetest reasonsFor the products most malign—They can tell the paths and seasonsOf the farthest suns that shine.How the moth-wing's iridescenceBy an inward plan was wrought,And they read me curious lessonsIn the secret ways of thought.

For they know the sweetest reasons

For the products most malign—

They can tell the paths and seasons

Of the farthest suns that shine.

How the moth-wing's iridescence

By an inward plan was wrought,

And they read me curious lessons

In the secret ways of thought.

When day turns, and over heavenTo the balmy western vergeSail the victor fleets of even,And the pilot stars emerge,Then my city rounds and rises,Like a vapour formed afar,And its sudden girth surprises,And its shadowy gates unbar.

When day turns, and over heaven

To the balmy western verge

Sail the victor fleets of even,

And the pilot stars emerge,

Then my city rounds and rises,

Like a vapour formed afar,

And its sudden girth surprises,

And its shadowy gates unbar.

Dreamy crowds are moving yonderIn a faint and phantom blue;Through the dusk I lean, and wonderIf their winsome shapes are true;But in veiling indecisionCome my questions back again—Which is real? The fleeting vision?Or the fleeting world of men?

Dreamy crowds are moving yonder

In a faint and phantom blue;

Through the dusk I lean, and wonder

If their winsome shapes are true;

But in veiling indecision

Come my questions back again—

Which is real? The fleeting vision?

Or the fleeting world of men?

From upland slopes I see the cows file by,Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,By dusking fields and meadows shining paleWith moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high,A peevish night-hawk in the western skyBeats up into the lucent solitudes,Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woodsGrow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously.Cool night-winds creep, and whisper in mine earThe homely cricket gossips at my feet.From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear,Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweetIn full Pandean chorus. One by oneShine out the stars, and the great night comes on.

From upland slopes I see the cows file by,

Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,

By dusking fields and meadows shining pale

With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high,

A peevish night-hawk in the western sky

Beats up into the lucent solitudes,

Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woods

Grow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously.

Cool night-winds creep, and whisper in mine ear

The homely cricket gossips at my feet.

From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear,

Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet

In full Pandean chorus. One by one

Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on.

Before me grew the human soul,And after I am dead and gone,Through grades of effort and controlThe marvellous work shall still go on.Each mortal in his little spanHath only lived, if he have shownWhat greatness there can be in manAbove the measured and the known;How through the ancient layers of night,In gradual victory secure,Grows ever with increasing lightThe Energy serene and pure:The Soul, that from a monstrous past,From age to age, from hour to hour,Feels upward to some height at lastOf unimagined grace and power.Though yet the sacred fire be dull,In folds of thwarting matter furled,Ere death be nigh, while life is full,O Master Spirit of the world,Grant me to know, to seek, to find,In some small measure though it be,Emerging from the waste and blind,The clearer self, the grander me!

Before me grew the human soul,And after I am dead and gone,Through grades of effort and controlThe marvellous work shall still go on.

Before me grew the human soul,

And after I am dead and gone,

Through grades of effort and control

The marvellous work shall still go on.

Each mortal in his little spanHath only lived, if he have shownWhat greatness there can be in manAbove the measured and the known;

Each mortal in his little span

Hath only lived, if he have shown

What greatness there can be in man

Above the measured and the known;

How through the ancient layers of night,In gradual victory secure,Grows ever with increasing lightThe Energy serene and pure:

How through the ancient layers of night,

In gradual victory secure,

Grows ever with increasing light

The Energy serene and pure:

The Soul, that from a monstrous past,From age to age, from hour to hour,Feels upward to some height at lastOf unimagined grace and power.

The Soul, that from a monstrous past,

From age to age, from hour to hour,

Feels upward to some height at last

Of unimagined grace and power.

Though yet the sacred fire be dull,In folds of thwarting matter furled,Ere death be nigh, while life is full,O Master Spirit of the world,

Though yet the sacred fire be dull,

In folds of thwarting matter furled,

Ere death be nigh, while life is full,

O Master Spirit of the world,

Grant me to know, to seek, to find,In some small measure though it be,Emerging from the waste and blind,The clearer self, the grander me!

Grant me to know, to seek, to find,

In some small measure though it be,

Emerging from the waste and blind,

The clearer self, the grander me!

What are these bustlers at the gateOf now or yesterday,These playthings in the hand of Fate,That pass, and point no way;These clinging bubbles whose mock firesFor ever dance and gleam,Vain foam that gathers and expiresUpon the world's dark stream;These gropers betwixt right and wrong,That seek an unknown goal,Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;What are they, then, O Soul,That thou shouldst covet overmuchA tenderer range of heart,And yet at every dreamed-of touchSo tremulously start?Thou with that hatred ever newOf the world's base control,That vision of the large and true,That quickness of the soul;Nay, for they are not of thy kind,But in a rarer clayGod dowered thee with an alien mind;Thou canst not be as they.Be strong therefore; resume thy load,And forward stone by stoneGo singing, though the glorious roadThou travellest alone.

What are these bustlers at the gateOf now or yesterday,These playthings in the hand of Fate,That pass, and point no way;

What are these bustlers at the gate

Of now or yesterday,

These playthings in the hand of Fate,

That pass, and point no way;

These clinging bubbles whose mock firesFor ever dance and gleam,Vain foam that gathers and expiresUpon the world's dark stream;

These clinging bubbles whose mock fires

For ever dance and gleam,

Vain foam that gathers and expires

Upon the world's dark stream;

These gropers betwixt right and wrong,That seek an unknown goal,Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;What are they, then, O Soul,

These gropers betwixt right and wrong,

That seek an unknown goal,

Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;

What are they, then, O Soul,

That thou shouldst covet overmuchA tenderer range of heart,And yet at every dreamed-of touchSo tremulously start?

That thou shouldst covet overmuch

A tenderer range of heart,

And yet at every dreamed-of touch

So tremulously start?

Thou with that hatred ever newOf the world's base control,That vision of the large and true,That quickness of the soul;

Thou with that hatred ever new

Of the world's base control,

That vision of the large and true,

That quickness of the soul;

Nay, for they are not of thy kind,But in a rarer clayGod dowered thee with an alien mind;Thou canst not be as they.

Nay, for they are not of thy kind,

But in a rarer clay

God dowered thee with an alien mind;

Thou canst not be as they.

Be strong therefore; resume thy load,And forward stone by stoneGo singing, though the glorious roadThou travellest alone.

Be strong therefore; resume thy load,

And forward stone by stone

Go singing, though the glorious road

Thou travellest alone.

Methought I journeyed along ways that led for everThroughout a happy land where strife and care were dead,And life went by me flowing like a placid riverPast sandy eyots where the shifting shoals make head.A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donorOf peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds,Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour;A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads,Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose-wreathed alleys,Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang;Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys,And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang,Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling,And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors,Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling,Where all men entered and no master trod their floors.A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashionedBy generations of emotion high and sweet,Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impassioned;A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet.And every mode and saying of that land gave tokenOf limits where no death or evil fortune fell,And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroken,For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well.And all the earth was common, and no base contrivingOf money of coined gold was needed there or known,But all men wrought together without greed or striving,And all the store of all to each man was his own.From all that busy land, grey town, and peaceful village,Where never jar was heard, nor wail, nor cry of strife,From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage,Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life.At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbourHand linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair,And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour,Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share.At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearingBaskets of wicker in their ample hands for each,And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring,And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech.And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadowsGrew with the flocking stars, the sound of festivalRose in each city square, and all the country meadows,Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall.Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gardens meetingRan downward to the flood with marble steps, a throngCame forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting,With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song.In all their great fair cities there was neither seekingFor power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate painOf multitudes that starve, or, in hoarse anger breaking,Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain.But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers,Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learnThe chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others,Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return.And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace,Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there;Long ages since the very names of fraud and maliceHad vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care.And there there were no bonds of contract, deed, or marriage,No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure,For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or miscarriage,Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure.There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master,Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead,But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vasterMoved on together with the same majestic tread.And all the men and women of that land were fairerThan even the mightiest of our meaner race can be;The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarerFor wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty.And all the women through great ages of bright living,Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise,Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever givingThe fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes.And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin,The gateway of a lonely and secluded waste,A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing,Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced.On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad gloriesWere recorded in fire; upon its inner stone,Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories,The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known.And lo, in that grey storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten,Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed,The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, forgotten,The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed.An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken,Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign,'Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken,Broken and banished from a life made more divine.'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting,The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange,Lest o'er the minds of any there should come unwittingThe thought of some new order and the lust of change.'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither,To read the world's grim record and the sombre loreMassed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither,Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.'And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore meOut of that waste, and as I passed by tower and townI saw amid the limitless plain far out before meA long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crownWas capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness,Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plainSeemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightnessA land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain.And to and forth from that fair mountain like a riverRan many a dim grey road, and on them I could seeA multitude of stately forms that seemed for everGoing and coming in bright bands; and near to meWas one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger,Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still,And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger,The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill.Whereto the dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my brother,And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls,Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother?That is the hill of Pallas; those her marble halls!'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing,And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift;And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasingThe spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift.'Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowingWhither the tangled and diverging paths might lead,A land of baser men, whose coming and whose goingWere urged by fear, and hunger, and the curse of greed.I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faringIn fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow,The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearingThe burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe.And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pityPossessed me, and with eager and uplifted handsI drew the crowd about me in a mighty city,And taught the message of those other kindlier lands.I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Communion,The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife,And painted in great words the horror of disunion,The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life.I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stationsRebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad,And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patienceSmiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad.And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message,For well I knew that on and upward without ceaseThe spirit works for ever, and by Faith and PresageThat somehow yet the end of human life is Peace.

Methought I journeyed along ways that led for ever

Throughout a happy land where strife and care were dead,

And life went by me flowing like a placid river

Past sandy eyots where the shifting shoals make head.

A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donorOf peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds,Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour;A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads,

A land where beauty dwelt supreme, and right, the donor

Of peaceful days; a land of equal gifts and deeds,

Of limitless fair fields and plenty had with honour;

A land of kindly tillage and untroubled meads,

Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose-wreathed alleys,Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang;Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys,And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang,

Of gardens, and great fields, and dreaming rose-wreathed alleys,

Wherein at dawn and dusk the vesper sparrows sang;

Of cities set far off on hills down vista'd valleys,

And floods so vast and old, men wist not whence they sprang,

Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling,And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors,Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling,Where all men entered and no master trod their floors.

Of groves, and forest depths, and fountains softly welling,

And roads that ran soft-shadowed past the open doors,

Of mighty palaces and many a lofty dwelling,

Where all men entered and no master trod their floors.

A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashionedBy generations of emotion high and sweet,Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impassioned;A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet.

A land of lovely speech, where every tone was fashioned

By generations of emotion high and sweet,

Of thought and deed and bearing lofty and impassioned;

A land of golden calm, grave forms, and fretless feet.

And every mode and saying of that land gave tokenOf limits where no death or evil fortune fell,And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroken,For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well.

And every mode and saying of that land gave token

Of limits where no death or evil fortune fell,

And men lived out long lives in proud content unbroken,

For there no man was rich, none poor, but all were well.

And all the earth was common, and no base contrivingOf money of coined gold was needed there or known,But all men wrought together without greed or striving,And all the store of all to each man was his own.

And all the earth was common, and no base contriving

Of money of coined gold was needed there or known,

But all men wrought together without greed or striving,

And all the store of all to each man was his own.

From all that busy land, grey town, and peaceful village,Where never jar was heard, nor wail, nor cry of strife,From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage,Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life.

From all that busy land, grey town, and peaceful village,

Where never jar was heard, nor wail, nor cry of strife,

From every laden stream and all the fields of tillage,

Arose the murmur and the kindly hum of life.

At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbourHand linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair,And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour,Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share.

At morning to the fields came forth the men, each neighbour

Hand linked to other, crowned, with wreaths upon their hair,

And all day long with joy they gave their hands to labour,

Moving at will, unhastened, each man to his share.

At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearingBaskets of wicker in their ample hands for each,And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring,And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech.

At noon the women came, the tall fair women, bearing

Baskets of wicker in their ample hands for each,

And learned the day's brief tale, and how the fields were faring,

And blessed them with their lofty beauty and blithe speech.

And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadowsGrew with the flocking stars, the sound of festivalRose in each city square, and all the country meadows,Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall.

And when the great day's toil was over, and the shadows

Grew with the flocking stars, the sound of festival

Rose in each city square, and all the country meadows,

Palace, and paven court, and every rustic hall.

Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gardens meetingRan downward to the flood with marble steps, a throngCame forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting,With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song.

Beside smooth streams, where alleys and green gardens meeting

Ran downward to the flood with marble steps, a throng

Came forth of all the folk, at even, gaily greeting,

With echo of sweet converse, jest, and stately song.

In all their great fair cities there was neither seekingFor power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate painOf multitudes that starve, or, in hoarse anger breaking,Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain.

In all their great fair cities there was neither seeking

For power of gold, nor greed of lust, nor desperate pain

Of multitudes that starve, or, in hoarse anger breaking,

Beat at the doors of princes, break and fall in vain.

But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers,Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learnThe chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others,Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return.

But all the children of that peaceful land, like brothers,

Lofty of spirit, wise, and ever set to learn

The chart of neighbouring souls, the bent and need of others,

Thought only of good deeds, sweet speech, and just return.

And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace,Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there;Long ages since the very names of fraud and maliceHad vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care.

And there there was no prison, power of arms, nor palace,

Where prince or judge held sway, for none was needed there;

Long ages since the very names of fraud and malice

Had vanished from men's tongues, and died from all men's care.

And there there were no bonds of contract, deed, or marriage,No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure,For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or miscarriage,Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure.

And there there were no bonds of contract, deed, or marriage,

No oath, nor any form, to make the word more sure,

For no man dreamed of hurt, dishonour, or miscarriage,

Where every thought was truth, and every heart was pure.

There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master,Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead,But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vasterMoved on together with the same majestic tread.

There were no castes of rich or poor, of slave or master,

Where all were brothers, and the curse of gold was dead,

But all that wise fair race to kindlier ends and vaster

Moved on together with the same majestic tread.

And all the men and women of that land were fairerThan even the mightiest of our meaner race can be;The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarerFor wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty.

And all the men and women of that land were fairer

Than even the mightiest of our meaner race can be;

The men like gentle children, great of limb, yet rarer

For wisdom and high thought, like kings for majesty.

And all the women through great ages of bright living,Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise,Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever givingThe fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes.

And all the women through great ages of bright living,

Grown goodlier of stature, strong, and subtly wise,

Stood equal with the men, calm counsellors, ever giving

The fire and succour of proud faith and dauntless eyes.

And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin,The gateway of a lonely and secluded waste,A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing,Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced.

And as I journeyed in that land I reached a ruin,

The gateway of a lonely and secluded waste,

A phantom of forgotten time and ancient doing,

Eaten by age and violence, crumbled and defaced.

On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad gloriesWere recorded in fire; upon its inner stone,Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories,The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known.

On its grim outer walls the ancient world's sad glories

Were recorded in fire; upon its inner stone,

Drawn by dead hands, I saw, in tales and tragic stories,

The woe and sickness of an age of fear made known.

And lo, in that grey storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten,Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed,The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, forgotten,The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed.

And lo, in that grey storehouse, fallen to dust and rotten,

Lay piled the traps and engines of forgotten greed,

The tomes of codes and canons, long disused, forgotten,

The robes and sacred books of many a vanished creed.

An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken,Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign,'Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken,Broken and banished from a life made more divine.

An old grave man I found, white-haired and gently spoken,

Who, as I questioned, answered with a smile benign,

'Long years have come and gone since these poor gauds were broken,

Broken and banished from a life made more divine.

'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting,The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange,Lest o'er the minds of any there should come unwittingThe thought of some new order and the lust of change.

'But still we keep them stored as once our sires deemed fitting,

The symbol of dark days and lives remote and strange,

Lest o'er the minds of any there should come unwitting

The thought of some new order and the lust of change.

'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither,To read the world's grim record and the sombre loreMassed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither,Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.'

'If any grow disturbed, we bring them gently hither,

To read the world's grim record and the sombre lore

Massed in these pitiless vaults, and they returning thither,

Bear with them quieter thoughts, and make for change no more.'

And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore meOut of that waste, and as I passed by tower and townI saw amid the limitless plain far out before meA long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crown

And thence I journeyed on by one broad way that bore me

Out of that waste, and as I passed by tower and town

I saw amid the limitless plain far out before me

A long low mountain, blue as beryl, and its crown

Was capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness,Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plainSeemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightnessA land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain.

Was capped by marble roofs that shone like snow for whiteness,

Its foot was deep in gardens, and that blossoming plain

Seemed in the radiant shower of its majestic brightness

A land for gods to dwell in, free from care and pain.

And to and forth from that fair mountain like a riverRan many a dim grey road, and on them I could seeA multitude of stately forms that seemed for everGoing and coming in bright bands; and near to me

And to and forth from that fair mountain like a river

Ran many a dim grey road, and on them I could see

A multitude of stately forms that seemed for ever

Going and coming in bright bands; and near to me

Was one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger,Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still,And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger,The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill.

Was one that in his journey seemed to dream and linger,

Walking at whiles with kingly step, then standing still,

And him I met and asked him, pointing with my finger,

The meaning of the palace and the lofty hill.

Whereto the dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my brother,And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls,Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother?That is the hill of Pallas; those her marble halls!

Whereto the dreamer: 'Art thou of this land, my brother,

And knowest not the mountain and its crest of walls,

Where dwells the priestless worship of the all-wise mother?

That is the hill of Pallas; those her marble halls!

'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing,And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift;And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasingThe spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift.'

'There dwell the lords of knowledge and of thought increasing,

And they whom insight and the gleams of song uplift;

And thence as by a hundred conduits flows unceasing

The spring of power and beauty, an eternal gift.'

Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowingWhither the tangled and diverging paths might lead,A land of baser men, whose coming and whose goingWere urged by fear, and hunger, and the curse of greed.

Still I passed on until I reached at length, not knowing

Whither the tangled and diverging paths might lead,

A land of baser men, whose coming and whose going

Were urged by fear, and hunger, and the curse of greed.

I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faringIn fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow,The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearingThe burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe.

I saw the proud and fortunate go by me, faring

In fatness and fine robes, the poor oppressed and slow,

The faces of bowed men, and piteous women bearing

The burden of perpetual sorrow and the stamp of woe.

And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pityPossessed me, and with eager and uplifted handsI drew the crowd about me in a mighty city,And taught the message of those other kindlier lands.

And tides of deep solicitude and wondering pity

Possessed me, and with eager and uplifted hands

I drew the crowd about me in a mighty city,

And taught the message of those other kindlier lands.

I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Communion,The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife,And painted in great words the horror of disunion,The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life.

I preached the rule of Faith and brotherly Communion,

The law of Peace and Beauty and the death of Strife,

And painted in great words the horror of disunion,

The vainness of self-worship, and the waste of life.

I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stationsRebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad,And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patienceSmiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad.

I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stations

Rebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad,

And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patience

Smiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad.

And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message,For well I knew that on and upward without ceaseThe spirit works for ever, and by Faith and PresageThat somehow yet the end of human life is Peace.

And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message,

For well I knew that on and upward without cease

The spirit works for ever, and by Faith and Presage

That somehow yet the end of human life is Peace.

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