Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18.djvu/674

666 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.

Ever the words of the gods resound,

But the porches of man's ear

Seldom in this low life's round

Are unsealed that he may hear.

Wandering voices in the air,

And murmurs in the wold,

Speak what I cannot declare,

Yet cannot all withhold.

When the shadow fell on the lake,

The whirlwind in ripples wrote

Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,

And omens above thought.

But the meanings cleave to the lake,

Cannot be carried in book or urn;

Go thy ways now, come later back,

On waves and hedges still they burn

These the fates of men forecast,

Of better men than live to-day;

If who can read them comes at last,

He will spell in the sculpture, "Stay."