Page:May-day and other pieces, Emerson, 1867.djvu/128

116 Keen ears can catch a syllable,

As if one spake to another,

In the hemlocks tall, untamable,

And what the whispering grasses smother.

Æolian harps in the pine

Ring with the song of the Fates;

Infant Bacchus in the vine,—

Far distant yet his chorus waits.

Canst thou copy in verse one chime

Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,

Write in a book the morning's prime,

Or match with words that tender sky?

Wonderful verse of the gods,

Of one import, of varied tone;

They chant the bliss of their abodes

To man imprisoned in his own.