APOLLO THE SHEPHERD. AN exile since the summer's reign was new, many a rood. Whose palace walls are stretched for Cool amber honey from the hollow wood, Their kind eyes smiling through their glistening locks; Love greets me here, though keeper of Admetus' flocks. So well the god I mask, they know me not, Young shepherds of the hills, who gather round, Care-loosed at evening, or in noontides hot Stretched in the shadow on some chosen ground; They know me not, who feed upon my songs And flute-blown memories of the golden lyre, Once heard upon Olympus' mansioned height, Where the smooth pavement glassed the leaning throngs 96 APOLLO THE SHEPHERD. That listened breathless, all their hearts on fire, Glad beasts draw near, and birds in circling flight, While voices waken in the mountain rocks, And hail me king, though keeper of Admetus' flocks. Where go ye now astray, ye zealous bards, Led by the whispering of laurel-trees, It is my hand the source of song unlocks, I am your king, come keep with me Admetus' flocks! THE HOMESICKNESS OF GANYMEDE. EAGLE pinions, swift as thought, In Jove's palace full of light When each godhead, drinking deep, Hastes where sky and mountain meet: Ganymede in heaven sighs. River, field, and wooded height 98 THE HOMESICKNESS OF GANYMEDE. He can only guess how fair, He can only dream how sweet Temple service, vintage cheer, Young maid's laughter, youth's fond eyes: Ganymede in heaven sighs! Haply men have seen him gaze Careless gods, take back your gift, THE KINGFISHER. "While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave." THE north is flocking with snow, with plumes that were fledged in the sky; The east is a garden of thorns where the frost's keen javelins fly; The west is a world of caverns whence storms are unleashed for the chase, Alcyone, tarry we here in the sun of the south for a space! Rest, for the air is softer than dreams that hover in sleep; Rest, for the summer rests with us, mantling the gulf and the steep. The long-severed rivers are folded at last in the arms of the sea, With drift from the thyme-sweet meadows, and sheaves they have caught from the lea. The riotous winds and the ocean are bound by a truce for thy sake, And well may the mariner sing, for he knows that no flaw will awake, Thou flying in languorous curves or dipping thy breast in the spray. (99) |