The Enchanted Prince

Here lying on the ancient mount,
Through days grown stagnant and too rich,
My half-raised eyes keep sleepy count
Of wild weeds springing in the ditch,

Of turf so quiet and so clean,
The sun's light seems more ancient there,
As if the chill and slumbering green
Had grown indifferent to the air.

And all worn smooth 'neath deadened years
Which have forgotten that they roll,
Though at its secret term appears
The lawful grass upon the knoll.

Here is the peace of ended toil
Heavy and rich, too rich, as though
A race were mingled with the soil,
And could no more rise up and go.

A willow hangs above the vale,
Here at my foot, and I have sight,
Through twisted branches dusty pale,
Of distant hills in different light.

So inaccessible and so clear;
The houses gleam on every hill!
The silent valley tumbles sheer,
Like an abyss where time is still.

Yet here upon the enchanted mount
I look out towards the farther heights,
And, lost far onward, strive to count
Ambiguous shapes in shifting lights,

Till, where peaks battle in the haze
In mortal strife without a cry,
Upon unnameable things I gaze,
And dragons rearing at the sky.

If now, turned back, I think again
That all those lines which heaved and strove
Just now, were quiet earth, I fain
Would perish of a boundless love.

Here lying on the ancient mount,
Through days grown stagnant and too rich,
My heart is dust, the while I count
The wild weeds springing in the ditch.
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