SYRINX. Come forth, too timid spirit of the reed! 'Tis but the vagrant wind that makes thee start,— To fan the lily on the stream's warm breast: Whether he lies in some mossed wood, asleep, Lulled by its pulses of eternal sound, He wakes not, answers not our sylvan cheer, Else we had seen him, through the mists of the morn, No hoof-print on the river's silver marge; O tremulous elf, reach me a hollow pipe, The best and smoothest of thy hollow store! Now, I may blow till time be hoary ripe, And listening streams forsake the paths they wore: Pan loved the sound, but now will never hear,- And so, come freely forth, and through the sedge And thou didst safely win the breathless race- HOMESICK. This were a miracle, if it could be! If, never loitering since the prime of day, Or, if so far sweet sounds could make their way, Of homeward slopes new-clothed with summer green. Maunce thompson ATALANTA. When spring grows old, and sleepy winds She throws a kiss and bids me run, I know I cannot win the race, And at the end, I know, is death. But joyfully I bare my limbs, Anoint me with the tropic breeze, And feel through every sinew run The vigor of Hippomenes. O race of love! we all have run Thy happy course through groves of spring, And cared not, when at last we lost, For life or death or anything! A PRELUDE. I. Spirit that moves the sap in spring, Let mine be the freshening power Let some procreant truth exhale II. If quick, sound seed be wanting where And longs to fill a higher state, There let my meanings germinate. Let not my strength be spilled for naught, But, in some fresher vessel caught, Be blended into sweeter forms, And fraught with purer aims and charms. Let bloom-dust of my life be blown And when I fall, like some old tree, And subtile change makes mould of me, There let earth show a fertile line, Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine WILD HONEY. I. Where hints of racy sap and gum Out of the old dark forest come; Where birds their beaks like hammers wield, And pith is pierced, and bark is peeled; Where the green walnut's outer rind There lurks the sweet creative power, II. In winter's bud that bursts in spring, In acrid bulb beneath the mould, That Rosicrucians sought in vain,— III. What bottled perfume is so good What fabled drink of god or muse And what school-polished gem of thought IV. He is a poet strong and true Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew; And like a brown bee works and sings And a golden burden on his thighs,- |