"cyclad" poems
What shape so furtive steals along the dim
Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June;
This day of rest, when all the roses swoon
In Attic vales where dryads wait for him?
What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim
That lured him here this golden afternoon;
Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon
In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim?
Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these
Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies
Are fanes men rear to other deities;
Far to the east the haunted woodland lies,
And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas,
Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise.
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Some life
We will link arms
And walk the paths of kew
The warm hand of the sun
On our backs
Some life
We will go in the palm house
And melt away the years
Among the Latin names
That ancient cyclad
Some life
We will touch the tall pine
Remember the pattern
And the strength
Some life
We will climb up
To worship the trees
And look across London
And turn and kiss
Some life
We will turn home
Multitudes of leaves
Dancing reels
On the path ahead
And falling joyfully
In our hair
Some other life
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC