At Achensee, Tirol

(From the German of A. Pickler.--Died, 1893)

The old path up, the wood's ranked gloomy legions, The lap and the rustle of the lake behind, And, roused by these, from Death's more timely regions The old thoughts fluttering in a lonely mind;

About my way the pine-stems thick and thicker Huddle, the mossed stone drips abundantly, And, thro' the screen of woven branches, flicker The bright and heaving waves of Achensee.

Pinewood and primrose scents, the air has mixt them; Poised butterflies, a shining sun-bathed fleet, Sky's blue, gaunt granite jags, and buoyed betwixt them, The cloud-fleece flushing with the day's defeat.

The spell is on me, nor can aught deliver; Slowly my spirit fails from life and light, And Past and Future like a pauseless river, Slide darkly down into a darker night.

The red glow wans, the blackbird's trill and quaver Dies in the sudden gloom, the broad world sleeps; And, mixed with moon-fire flakes, the billows waver, As though dead hands tossed vainly in their deeps.

I think of the high dead, and that all-daring First bard whom Orcus' self might not withstand, I think of his vast love, and fruitless faring, To pluck one rose from Proserpine's hand.

The Past is an ill riddle, over-subtle, The Thing-to-Be a rumour of a cloud, Would know the last weft of Fate's whirring shuttle? You shall know, when they wind you in your shroud.

Innsbruck, 18th July, 1904.