THIS wood might be some Grecian heritage Of the antique world, this hoary ilex wood; So broad the shade, so deep the solitude, So grey the air where Oread fancies brood. Beyond, the fields are tall with purple sage; The sky bends downward like a purple sheet -- A purple wind-filled sail -- i' the noonday heat; And past the river shine the fields of wheat. O tender wheat, O starry saxifrage, O deep-red tulips, how the fields are fair! Far off the mountains pierce the quivering air, Ash-coloured, mystical, remote, and bare. How far they look, the Mountains of Mirage Or northern Hills of Heaven, how far away! In front the long paulonia-blossoms sway From leafless boughs across that dreamy grey. O world, how worthy of a golden age! How might Theocritus have sung and found The Oreads here, the Naiads gathering round, Their pallid locks still dripping to the ground! For me, O world, thou art how mere a stage, Whereon the human soul must act alone, In a dead language, with the plot unknown, Nor learn what happens when the play is done. |