Then came once more those strangers leading long
  Migration of their subject folk.  They stayed
And medley’d and were mingled, and their throng
  Melted in his like snows, and so were made
One with them, and forgot their useless tongue,
  Nor now their ancient bloody worship paid
To painted gods:—­name, language, story died
When their last faithless exile parting sighed.

So year on year, century on century
  In his imagination of delight
Followed, in a new world all innocency
  And simpleness, and made for beings bright,
Where man to man was friend, unfearful, free,
  And natural griefs alone darkened their night,
And natural joys as the wide air were common,
And kindness was the bond of all kin human.

* * * * *

—­When the loved reeds of music sounded clear
  From birds’ breasts quivering in tall woodland trees
That rustled leafless in the winter air,
  And with morn’s new voice shrilled the western breeze: 
Folding her wings the dream crept from his ear
  To hang where bats drowse until daylight dies. 
Then he from sleep’s dear vanity awaking
Watched a sole sunbeam the roof-shadows raking.

PART II

THE WAKERS

The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass
And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,
  And cried, “Before thy flowers are well awake
  Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.

“Before the daisy and the sorrel buy
Their brightness back from that close-folding night,
  Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,
  Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!”

Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred
Above the Roman bones that may not stir
  Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang: 
  The grass stirred as that happy music rang.

O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere! 
The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,
  The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,
  And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.

As if she had found wings, light as the wind,
The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,
  Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all
  Her dews for happiness to hear morning call....

But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,
I saw the fading edge of all delight. 
  The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,
  And there was the old scolding of the birds.

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

TO
MARJORY

I

CHILDHOOD CALLS

Come over, come over the deepening river,
Come over again the dark torrent of years,
Come over, come back where the green leaves quiver,
And the lilac still blooms and the grey sky clears.