Poetry Archives

Again the warm bare earth, the noon
  That hangs upon her healing scars,
The midnight round, the great red moon,
  The mother with her brood of stars,

The mist-rack and the wakening rain
  Blown soft in many a forest way,
The yellowing elm-trees, and again
  The blood-root in its sheath of gray.

The vesper-sparrow’s song, the stress
  Of yearning notes that gush and stream,
The lyric joy, the tenderness,
  And once again the dream! the dream!

A touch of far-off joy and power,
  A something it is life to learn,
Comes back to earth, and one short hour
  The glamours of the gods return.

This life’s old mood and cult of care
  Falls smitten by an older truth,
And the gray world wins back to her
  The rapture of her vanished youth.

Dead thoughts revive, and he that heeds
  Shall hear, as by a spirit led,
A song among the golden reeds:
  “The gods are vanished but not dead!”

For one short hour, unseen yet near,
  They haunt us, a forgotten mood,
A glory upon mead and mere,
  A magic in the leafless wood.

At morning we shall catch the glow
  Of Dian’s quiver on the hill,
And somewhere in the glades I know
  That Pan is at his piping still.