ONCE I remember, in a far-off June, Leaving the studious cloister of my youth, Beside the young Thames' stream I laid me down, Wearied, upon a bank. 'Twas midsummer; The warm earth teemed with flowers; the kingcup's gold, The perfumed clover, 'mid the crested grass, The plantains rearing high their flowery crowns Above the daisied coverts; overhead, The hawthorns, white and rosy, bent with bloom, The broad-fanned chestnuts spiked with frequent flowers, And white gold-hearted lilies on the stream; All these made joy within my heart, and woke The fair idyllic phantasies of Greece; And dreaming, well content with the rich charm Of summer England, long I idly mused: "And were the deep-set vales of Thessaly Or fair Olympian beech-groves more than this? Or the Sicilian meads more rich in flowers, Where the lost goddess plucked the asphodel? Or flowed the clear stream through a lovelier shade Where Dian bathed and rapt Actaeon saw? Or were they purer depths where Hyias played Till the nymphs drew him down? Ah, fairer dreams Than our poor England holds! Grave, toil-worn land! Poor aged mother of a graceless brood, With shambling gait and limbs by labour bent! What should she know of such?" When straight I heard A ripple of boyish mirth, and looking saw Far off along the meads a gliding boat Float noiselessly; lithe forms at either end -- The self-same forms which Phidias fixed of old -- With tall poles, pressed it forward, others lay Reclined, and all had crowned their short smooth hair With lilies from the stream, while one had shaped Some hollow reed in semblance of a pipe, Making a shrill faint sound -- a joyous crew, Clothed with the grace of innocent nakedness. Then, while they yet were far, ere yet a sound Of their poor rustic tones assailed the sense, Or too great nearness marred the grace of form -- Poised sudden in a white row, side by side, They plunged down headlong in the sweet warm tide. Then, as I went, within myself I said, "The young Apollo is not wholly fled, Nor can long centuries of toil and care Make youth less comely or the earth less fair. To the world's ending Joy and Grace shall be. I, too, have been to-day in Arcady." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOON by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOUNTAIN FASTNESS by HAYDEN CARRUTH PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST MATE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EPITAPH IN A CHURCH-YARD IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA by AMY LOWELL |