To Maurice Thompson
ON READING HIS “SONGS OF FAIR WEATHER.”
Lyrist of woods and waters, loving best
Pure Nature's alterant charms, thou art to me
A new Theocritus, whose gaze can see
New joys in that wide Sicily of thy West!
Yet now no longer thou companionest
Meek flocks on dewy lawns, but wieldest free
The bow of dead Diana, fallen to thee
By some divine and beautiful bequest!
Thy words, that often are leafage to the sense,
Have strength like bark and grain of sturdy boughs,
And rhythm as of a wind that sweeps and veers,
Till by the sorcery of their influence
We steal down fragrant glooms where shy fawns browse,
Or crouch where slim birds float from reedy meres!
Lyrist of woods and waters, loving best
Pure Nature's alterant charms, thou art to me
A new Theocritus, whose gaze can see
New joys in that wide Sicily of thy West!
Yet now no longer thou companionest
Meek flocks on dewy lawns, but wieldest free
The bow of dead Diana, fallen to thee
By some divine and beautiful bequest!
Thy words, that often are leafage to the sense,
Have strength like bark and grain of sturdy boughs,
And rhythm as of a wind that sweeps and veers,
Till by the sorcery of their influence
We steal down fragrant glooms where shy fawns browse,
Or crouch where slim birds float from reedy meres!
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