Читать книгу Undertones - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 13

They lean their faces to me through

Green windows of the woods;

Their white throats sweet with honey-dew

Beneath low leafy hoods —

No dream they dream but hath been true

Here in the solitudes.

Star trillium, in the underbrush,

In whom Spring bares her face;

Sun eglantine, that breathes the blush

Of Summer's quiet grace;

Moon mallow, in whom lives the hush

Of Autumn's tragic pace.

For one hath heard the dryad's sighs

Behind the covering bark;

And one hath felt the satyr's eyes

Gleam in the bosky dark;

And one hath seen the naiad rise

In waters all a-spark.

I bend my soul unto them, stilled

In worship man hath lost;

The old-world myths that science killed

Are living things almost

To me through these whose forms are filled

With Beauty's pagan ghost.

And through new eyes I seem to see

The world these live within, —

A shuttered world of mystery,

Where unreal forms begin

The real of ideality

That has no unreal kin.