I - LA MARE DES FEES

The leaves rain down upon the forest pond,

An elfin tarn green-shadowed in the fern;

Nine yews ensomber the wet bank, beyond

The autumn branches of the beeches burn

With yellow flame and red amid the green,

And patches of the darkening sky between.

This is an ancient country; in this wood

The Druids raised their sacrificial stones;

Here the vast timeless silences still brood

Though the cold wind's October monotones

Fan the enchanted senses with the dread

Of holiness long-past and beauty dead.

How far beyond this glade the day-world turns

Upon its pivot of reward and chance;

Farther than the first star that palely burns

Over the forest's meditative trance.

First star of evening, last star of day,

The one grows clear, the other dies away.

Will they come back who once beneath these trees

Invoked their long-forgotten gods with tears,

Who heard the sob of the same twilight breeze

Blow down the vistas of remembered years,

Beside the tarn's black waters where they stood

Close to their god, far from the multitude?

I watch, but they are long ago departed,

Far as the world of day, or as the star;

The forest loved her priests, and tranquil-hearted

They stole away in dim procession, far

Down the unechoing aisles, beyond recalling;

The moss grows on the stones, the leaves are falling.

In vain I listen for their hissing speech,

And seek white holy hands upon the air,

They told their worship to the yew and beech,

And left them with the secret, trembling there,

Nor shall they come at midnight nor at dawn;

The gods are dead; the votaries are gone.

A form floats toward me down the corridor

Of mighty trees, half-visioned through the haze,

And stands beside me on that empty shore;

So rest we there, and wonderingly gaze.

By the dead water, under the deep boughs,

My Love and I renew our ancient vows.