Through the street of St. Germain
March the tattered hosts of rain,
While the wind with vagrant fife
Whips their chilly ranks to life.
From the window I can see
Their ghostly banners blowing free,
As they pass to where the ships
Crowd about the wharves and slips.
There at day's end they embark
To invade the realms of dark,
And the sun comes out again
In the street of St. Germain.
Pan in the Catskills
They say that he is dead, and now no more
The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills,
When the long summer heat is on the land.
But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing,
And therefore am incredulous of death,
Of pain and sorrow and mortality.
In these blue cañons, deep with hemlock shade,
In solitudes of twilight or of dawn,
I have been rapt away from time and care
By the enchantment of a golden strain
As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild,
Filling the listener with a mute surmise.