Serena
But here and there methinks a weary shepherd,
In quest of dewy blossom,
Stoops down to pluck the grass in flower
Beneath a white acacia-bower,
To cool some ancient scar of ape or leopard,
Some bite of snake or 'possum;
And lo! he starts and smiles, the happy shepherd,
Serena in his bosom!
And through his veins there steals a subtle wonder,
A magic melancholy
(So faint a sense, it cannot be
A hope nor yet a memory).
But something haunts the bough he slumbers under
That makes it rare and holy.
And lo! the shadows are a thing to ponder.
And every herb the Moly!…
Or else (who knows?) some lithe and amber maiden
Who steals to meet her lover
Goes singing with an idle art
To ease the gladness at her heart.
Along the sombre paths and cypress-shaden
Deep glades the roses cover.
And fills her arms with garlands heavy laden
The dewdrops sprinkle over.
But, in the crown she binds, her slender fingers
Have set the undreamed-of flower;
And from that moment she forgets
Her lover and her carcanets;
Nor any more she sings among the singers.
But wanders hour on hour
Deep in the wood and deeper, where there lingers
The secret and the power! …
Now he and she shall wander at the leading
Of one enchanted vision.
Recall the thing they have not seen,
Remember what hath never been,
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