Joy of the Morning I hear you, little bird, Shouting aswing above the broken wall. Oft when the white, still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I've felt it like a glory in my heart (The world's mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Youth and Time Once, I remember, the world was young; He turned the fields to enchanted ground, But alas, he vanished, and Time appeared, kings; 81 Youth and Time He gave me doubt and a bloom of beard, The wonder went from the field of corn, I hear no more the wild thrush sing: of death; Calls memories back on their path apace; Sends desperate thoughts to the soul's dim place. Time murders our youth with his sorrow and sin, And pushes us on to the windowless inn. A Satyr Song I know by the stir of the branches And at times I can see where a stem She's the secret and light of my life, She allures to elude; But I follow the spell of her beauty Whatever the mood. I have followed all night in the hills, And my breath is deep, But she flies on before like a voice In the vale of sleep. I follow the print of her feet In the wild river bed, And lo, she calls gleefully down A Cry in the Night Wail, wail, wail, For the fleering world goes down: Into the song of the poet pale Mixes the laugh of the clown. Grim, grim, grim, Is the road we go to the dead; Yet we must on, for a Something dim Pushes the soul ahead. Where, where, where, Through the dust and shadow of things Will the fleeing Fates with their wild manes bear These tribes of slaves and kings? |