Down into the caverns of the sky,
And all was freedom.
The little birds fluttered in and out the leafy coverts ;
The hawks slanted to the breeze,
And the squirrels ran about,
Sitting erect, suddenly, questioning.
The flowers blossomed without a governor,
And the beautiful madrona-trees.
With limbs smooth as the limbs of nymphs,
Whispered to the roving winds.
But you, my brothers and my sisters.
Cannot watch the depthless blue
From under a wide-spreading oak.
There are hills for all and oaks for all.
And the airy blue covers the world ;
But you may not lie at ease awhile upon a hill-top.
And examine your souls.
You sit under a dark roof through which
Filters neither sun, nor stars.
You are robbed of your inheritance.
From the hill-top may be seen the skyey threads
Which are the rivers.
I may go down to them and lie by them.
Refilling the vessels of my soul;
But what to you, oh work-worn, weary ones.
Are the secret conversations of the waters?
Do they carry you afar, enchanted and enthralled.
Like half-heard, mystic, murmured incantations
Of soft-shod, hushed magicians
Who lift you, sleeping, and in Lethean langour
Bear you unto the perfect meadows?
Do the white-handed nymphs await your coming
And hide within the fragrant fringes.
Slender rushes, mint and mallow?
Do you. Life-cheated brothers.
Hear the continuous warble of the hidden nymphs?
Their far, faint laughter?
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