In Days of Old

Of all the ages’ gain, the ages’ loss,

A wealth of wonders and so much away —

When now hears one the woodland elves at play,

Or angry dryads where tall tree-tops toss.

No more they lightly tread the dewy moss

As danced they through cool haunts in ecstasy;

But rank and lost the paths in lone decay

Where fairy footsteps once were wont to cross.

O, happy Greeks, who knew the gods so well,

To you I burn my sacrificial fire!

Again reveal the mystic hidden rune

Whereby to find the slopes of asphodel —

Ah, then to hear Apollo charm his lyre

And see Diana‘ neath the sickle moon.