AA WORD of grief to me erewhile:We have cut the oak down, in our isle.And I said: “Ye have bereavenThe song-thrush and the bee,And the fisher-boy at seaOf his sea-mark in the even;And gourds of cooling shade, to lieWithin the sickle’s sound;And the old sheep-dog’s loyal eyeOf sleep on duty’s ground;And poets of their tentAnd quiet tenement.Ah, impious! who so paidSuch fatherhood, and madeOf murmurous immortality a cargo and a trade.”For the hewn oak a century fair,A wound in earth, an ache in air.And I said: “No pillared heightWith a summer daïs over,Where a dryad fled her loverThrough the long arcade of light;Nor ’neath Arcturus rolleth more,Since the loud leaves are gone,Between the shorn cliff and the shore,Pan’s organ antiphon.Some nameless envy fedThis blow at grandeur’s head:Some breathed reproach o’erdue,Degenerate men, ye drew!Then, for his too plain heavenliness, our Socrates ye slew.”
AA WORD of grief to me erewhile:We have cut the oak down, in our isle.And I said: “Ye have bereavenThe song-thrush and the bee,And the fisher-boy at seaOf his sea-mark in the even;And gourds of cooling shade, to lieWithin the sickle’s sound;And the old sheep-dog’s loyal eyeOf sleep on duty’s ground;And poets of their tentAnd quiet tenement.Ah, impious! who so paidSuch fatherhood, and madeOf murmurous immortality a cargo and a trade.”For the hewn oak a century fair,A wound in earth, an ache in air.And I said: “No pillared heightWith a summer daïs over,Where a dryad fled her loverThrough the long arcade of light;Nor ’neath Arcturus rolleth more,Since the loud leaves are gone,Between the shorn cliff and the shore,Pan’s organ antiphon.Some nameless envy fedThis blow at grandeur’s head:Some breathed reproach o’erdue,Degenerate men, ye drew!Then, for his too plain heavenliness, our Socrates ye slew.”
AA WORD of grief to me erewhile:We have cut the oak down, in our isle.
A
A WORD of grief to me erewhile:
We have cut the oak down, in our isle.
And I said: “Ye have bereavenThe song-thrush and the bee,And the fisher-boy at seaOf his sea-mark in the even;And gourds of cooling shade, to lieWithin the sickle’s sound;And the old sheep-dog’s loyal eyeOf sleep on duty’s ground;And poets of their tentAnd quiet tenement.Ah, impious! who so paidSuch fatherhood, and madeOf murmurous immortality a cargo and a trade.”
And I said: “Ye have bereaven
The song-thrush and the bee,
And the fisher-boy at sea
Of his sea-mark in the even;
And gourds of cooling shade, to lie
Within the sickle’s sound;
And the old sheep-dog’s loyal eye
Of sleep on duty’s ground;
And poets of their tent
And quiet tenement.
Ah, impious! who so paid
Such fatherhood, and made
Of murmurous immortality a cargo and a trade.”
For the hewn oak a century fair,A wound in earth, an ache in air.
For the hewn oak a century fair,
A wound in earth, an ache in air.
And I said: “No pillared heightWith a summer daïs over,Where a dryad fled her loverThrough the long arcade of light;Nor ’neath Arcturus rolleth more,Since the loud leaves are gone,Between the shorn cliff and the shore,Pan’s organ antiphon.Some nameless envy fedThis blow at grandeur’s head:Some breathed reproach o’erdue,Degenerate men, ye drew!Then, for his too plain heavenliness, our Socrates ye slew.”
And I said: “No pillared height
With a summer daïs over,
Where a dryad fled her lover
Through the long arcade of light;
Nor ’neath Arcturus rolleth more,
Since the loud leaves are gone,
Between the shorn cliff and the shore,
Pan’s organ antiphon.
Some nameless envy fed
This blow at grandeur’s head:
Some breathed reproach o’erdue,
Degenerate men, ye drew!
Then, for his too plain heavenliness, our Socrates ye slew.”