Ballade Of Listening

On summer slopes lit white With old desire of day, The air with pearl bedight Prepares for gold array. The sun-drugged stars delay To die; the winds take fright And question, and betray Frail sounds for my delight. O voice of ancient springs! O little echo-flight! O harp of things!

In grasses that lie bright, In grasses that lie grey, Up on the clouded height Down in the zone of May Are printless feet astray. Airy the hands that smite The lyre in nameless lay; And the great gods invite Echo of earth chantings On quiet wing away. O--harp of things!

Envoy

Harp, is it this that you say? “Delicate is my might, Quickening the voice that sings; For I am sense grown fey. I am word of the morn and the night.” O harp of things!