I

The cool grass blowing in a breeze Of April valleys sooms and sways; On slopes that dip to quiet seas Through far, faint drifts of yellowing haze. I lie like one who, in a dream Of sounds and splendid coloured things, Seems lifted into life supreme And has a sense of waxing wings. For through a great arch-light which floods And breaks and spreads and swims along High royal-robed autumnal woods, I hear a glorious sunset song. But, ah, Euterpe! I that pause And listen to the strain divine Can never learn its words, because I am no son of thine.

How sweet is wandering where the west Is full of thee, what time the morn Looks from his halls of rosy rest Across green miles of gleaming corn!

How sweet are dreams in shady nooks, When bees are out, and day is mute, While down the dell there floats the brook's Fine echo of thy marvellous lute!

And oh, how sweet is that sad tune Of thine, within the evening breeze, Which roams beneath the mirrored moon On silver-sleeping summer seas!

How blest are they whom thou hast crowned, Thy priests--the lords who understand The deep divinity of sound, And live their lives in Wonderland!

These stand within thy courts and see The light exceeding round thy throne, But I--an alien unto thee-- I faint afar off, and alone.