Page:Poems, Alan Seeger, 1916.djvu/62

 That sprung like Hermes from his natal cave

In some blue rampart of the curving West,

Comes up the valleys where green cornfields wave,

Ravels the cloud about the mountain crest,

Breathes on the lake till gentle ripples pave

Its placid floor; at length a long-loved guest,

He steals across this plot of pleasant ground,

Waking the vocal leaves to a sweet vernal sound.

Here many a day right gladly have I sped,

Content amid the wavy plumes to lie,

And through the woven branches overhead

Watch the white, ever-wandering clouds go by,

And soaring birds make their dissolving bed

Far in the azure depths of summer sky,

Or nearer that small huntsman of the air,

The fly-catcher, dart nimbly from his leafy lair;

Pillowed at ease to hear the merry tune

Of mating warblers in the boughs above

And shrill cicadas whom the hottest noon

Keeps not from drowsy song; the mourning dove

Pours down the murmuring grove his plaintive croon

That like the voice of visionary love

Oft have I risen to seek through this green maze

(Even as my feet thread now the great world's garden-ways);

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