For him the stirring of the leaves
Beneath a listless passing breeze,
Spoke with a manifolded tongue
From all the thickly growing trees;
For him the beetles and the mice
Made magic of desires and fears,
The bumble bee's slow rhythmic hum
Seemed like the passing of the years.
And where a curving bramble-branch
Lay half in shade and half in light,
The universe's giant curves
Were all discovered to his sight;
All things were all things' complement,
For what the oak left unexpressed
In line and hue, the silver birch
Continued, in completion's quest.
There was no moss, nor stone, nor leaf,
Nor lingering small drop of dew,
But he resolved to harmony,
And in the mystic mind-web drew.
So sat he, abstract as a god,
The greatest wisdom of the world,
While on his head the sunshine played,
And round his robe the shadows curled.
Till, through the forest's green and gold,
And through the magic afternoon,
—Strange, as moonlit waters are,
Sweet, as cowslip-fields in June:—
Oh, summer-footed Vivien came!
And through the web of dreaming broke;
And on her silver clarion note
Of laughter, the great Sage awoke.
She sat her down beneath the tree,
—Oh! fair her youth his age beside!—
She plucked the boughs to make her shade.
She pulled the flowers far and wide,
To deck her hair; and while the glades
Re-echoed to her laughter gay,
She leaned to Merlin, kissing him,
And stroked his beard, unkempt and grey.