I

The hills are full of prophecies And ancient voices of the dead; Of hidden shapes that no man sees, Pale, visionary presences, That speak the things no tongue hath said, No mind hath thought, no eye hath read.

The streams are full of oracles, And momentary whisperings; An immaterial beauty swells Its breezy silver o'er the shells With wordless speech that sings and sings The message of diviner things.

No indeterminable thought is theirs, The stars', the sunsets' and the flowers'; Whose inexpressible speech declares Th' immortal Beautiful, who shares This mortal riddle which is ours, Beyond the forward-flying hours.