Poems
Seeing the gods are quiet, and their hands
Weave from their quiet thoughts the cool green lands
And soft continuous flow of life and death?
Cease, cease a little while from fevered breath
And fear which of confusion travaileth,
And use the earth's pale beauty as a glass
Through which you may perceive the great gods pass
Seeing the gods are wholly beautiful.'
This thing alone he knew, that through the lull
Of ceasing strife all beauty came to him,
And haunted his hushed spirit, and the dim
Sweet woodland rapture mingled with his blood—
And evermore, as some reposeful flood
Mirrors the passing clouds and bending trees,
So his receptive soul reflected full
Weave from their quiet thoughts the cool green lands
And soft continuous flow of life and death?
Cease, cease a little while from fevered breath
And fear which of confusion travaileth,
And use the earth's pale beauty as a glass
Through which you may perceive the great gods pass
Seeing the gods are wholly beautiful.'
This thing alone he knew, that through the lull
Of ceasing strife all beauty came to him,
And haunted his hushed spirit, and the dim
Sweet woodland rapture mingled with his blood—
And evermore, as some reposeful flood
Mirrors the passing clouds and bending trees,
So his receptive soul reflected full
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