AEons ago ye were, Before the struggling changeful ra… Wrought into being, ere the tragic… Of human toil and deep desire bega… So shall ye still remain,

With a turn of his magical rod, That extended and suddenly shone, From the round of his glory some g… Looks forth and is gone. To the summit of heaven the clouds

The earth is the cup of the sun, That he filleth at morning with wi… With the warm, strong wine of his… From the vintage of gold and of li… Fills it, and makes it divine.

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and… That keep this restless world at s… Mean passions that, like choking s… Perplex the stream of life, Pride and hot envy and cold greed,

Half god, half brute, within the s… Changers with every hour from dawn… Who dream with angels in the gate… And skirt with curious eyes the br… Children of Pan, whom some, the f…

Not to be conquered by these headl… But to stand free: to keep the min… On life’s deep meaning, nature’s a… Of loveliness, and time’s mysterio… At every thought and deed to clear…

All day, all day, round the clacki… The weaver’s fingers fly: Gray dreams like frozen mists are… In the hush of the weaver’s eye; A voice from the dusk is calling y…

Dear dark-brown waters full of all… Of sombre spruce-woods and the for… Laden with sound from far-off nort… Where winds and craggy cataracts c… Voices of streams and mountain pin…

The sun falls warm: the southern w… The air seethes upwards with a ste… Each dip of the road is now a crys… And every rut a little dancing riv… Through great soft clouds that sun…

Oh ye, who found in men’s brief wa… Of strength or help, so cast them… Your whole souls up to one ye deem… Nor failed nor doubted but held fa… Seeing before you that divine face…

Long, long ago, it seems, this sum… That pale-browed April passed wit… Through the frore woods, and from… Woke the arbutus with her silver h… And now May, too, is fled,

A little while, a year agone, I knew her for a romping child, A dimple and a glance that shone With idle mischief when she smiled… To-day she passed me in the press,

What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease… Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these? Gold is but the juggling rod

Even as I watched the daylight ho… From noon till eve, and saw the li… In long pale waves across the flas… And heard through all my dreams, w… The thin cicada singing overhead,

No wind there is that either pipes… The fields are cold and still; the… Is covered with a blue-gray sheet Of motionless cloud; and at my fee… The river, curling softly by,