THE CHOOSERS

O ye! Fragile, tremulous

Haunters of the deep glades,

Whose fingers part the leaves

Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,

Shall I see ye again?

Men have said unto me:

These are but flying lights and shadows,

Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,

The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,

Wind shadowing the clear pools.

But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:

Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!

So here cometh unto me

That cry from the rejoicing air:

Men are but shadows! And prone about me

I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,

Made solemn and holy by the night,

In the dead light o’ the moon:

Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,

As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,

Egypt's and Asia's kings.

While between them are the footsteps

Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one

To be a sword upon my thigh!

And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur

As between them pass

The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.

Shall I see ye again, O flying feet

O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,

In a wet brake o’ blossom,

Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;

Ere I am torn from the scabbard:

( Lo, one

To be a sword upon my thigh! )

Knowing no longer that earth

Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?