Thine is the peace, the glory and the splendour, That mother nature gives unto her own; Thine are the dreams, all glad, elusive, tender, With which she veils herself, remote, alone.
When she withdraws herself from man’s rude peering Into the virgin secrets of her heart, Out from the realms of hate and doubt and fearing, Unto her life of dreams, shut out, apart.
Where no soul reaches save some kindred spirit, Some late-born satyr caged in human form, Some child of that old order who inherit The haunting beauty of the ages’ storm.
Strange children, smitten with the dream of seeing The glory that lies under this mad life; The folds of midnight back of all this being, The majesty of sleep behind the strife.
Even I am one of those, glad, haunted river, A soul belated from the great ones gone; Wandering here at twilight, doomèd ever Mid alien days and dreams to wander on;
Hearing by grove and stream old voices calling In holy runes of earth’s primeval tongue; Mad music in the air about me falling, Out of the ages when the earth was young.
For I am not of all this weird mob, thronging The streets of mad to-day, the world’s dread throe; I walk apart all hungered with a longing For some departed, mighty long ago.
Unfettered child of nature’s mirth and gladness, Sing, sing and drift by field and country way; Fill earth and men with thy divine, sweet madness, With glad contentment gird both night and day:
Till even I, with every sad-eyed brother, Pausing amid the felon cares of life, Fare back through thee to earth our great kind mother, Forgetting failure, bitterness and strife.
And care and pain one troublous dream dissolving, Across the splendour of thy misty bars; We only know the glorious day revolving, Night’s majesty, and her eternal stars.