Food to his famished lips, forsake the mart,
And through the forest guide your haunted feet.
No curious nymph may thrust the boughs apart
With dewy arm; the Dryads grow discreet,
And scarcely is there found a modern breeze
So swift that it may catch the echoes sweet
Of laughter delicate within the trees.
Yet spirits fill the wood for him who sees.
iv.
Yea, for the souls in pain our goddess waits
With healing symbols. See her ocean beat
On barren sands and foam in rocky straits
With unavailing flow and vain retreat.
A restless breast that hoary pilgrim hath;
Dead faces touch it coldly, and his feet
Rage round the frozen shores with fruitless
wrath,
To escape his bondage. But yon moon, as chill
As some relentless conscience, points the path,
And, moaning, he obeys. Look higher still.
Within those circling spheres are fiery wars,
And yet their beauteous orbits they fulfill.
