Oaks of the voiceless ages! Precepts! Poems! Pages! Lessons! Leaves and volumes! Arches! Pillars! Columns In the corridors of ages! Grand patriarchal sages! Their Druid beards are drifting And shifting to and fro, Down to their waists in zephyrs, That bat-like come and go; The while the moon is sifting A sheen of shining snow On all these blossoms lifting Their blue eyes from below. The night has cast his mantle Down on the day's remains; For he lies dead before us. I seen his red blood stains At twilight drifting o'er us And these oaks chant above him In stately, solemn strains, For ah! these Druids love him, That knightly day that's slain, And they will robe in sable Till he shall rise again. I have no tears or sighing, For he was not kind to me -- This dead day here before us, O mossy Druid tree With dark brow bending o'er us! He was not kind to me, I will not wail his dying. No. It is not green leaves rustling That you hear lisping there, But bearded, mossy Druids Counting beads in prayer. No. Not a night-bird singing, Nor breeze a green bough swinging: But that bough holds a censer And swings it to and fro; 'Tis Sunday eve, remember, That's why they chant so low. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 1 by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS THOUGHTS OF PHENA AT NEWS OF HER DEATH by THOMAS HARDY MISSIONARY HYMN by REGINALD HEBER THE REVENGE OF HAMISH by SIDNEY LANIER SONNET: 10 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |