A Vision of Youth

A horseman on a hilltop green Drew rein, and wound his horn; So bright he looked he might have been The Herald of the Morn.

His steed was of the sovran strain In Fancy's meadows bred — And pride was in his tossing mane, And triumph in his tread.

The rider's eyes like jewels glowed — The World was in his hand — As down the woodland way he rode When Spring was in the land.

From golden hour to golden hour For him the woodland sang, And from the heart of every flower A singing fairy sprang.

He rode along with rein so free, And, as he rode, the Blue Mysterious Bird of Fantasy Ever before him flew.

He rode by cot and castle dim Through all the greenland gay; Bright eyes through casements glanced at him; He laughed — and rode away.

The world with sunshine was aflood, And glad were maid and man, And through his throbbing veins the blood In keen, sweet shudders ran.

* * * *

His steed tossed head with fiery scorn, And stamped, and snuffed the air — As though he heard a sudden horn Of far-off battle blare.

Erect the rider sat awhile With flashing eyes, and then Turned slowly, sighing, with a smile, “O weary world of men!”

For aye the Bird of Fantasy Sang magic songs to him, And deep and deeper still rode he  Into the Forest Dim.

* * * *

That rider with his face aglow With joy of life I see In dreams. Ah, years and years ago He parted ways with me!

Yet, sometimes, when the days are drear And all the world forlorn, From out the dim wood's heart I hear The echo of his horn.