 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
37
ILISSUS' BANK
A plane-tree by Ilissus' bed,
A bank of shade to prop the head,
With scanty grass, and frequent stone—
A summer noon to dream alone.
A bank of shade to prop the head,
With scanty grass, and frequent stone—
A summer noon to dream alone.
The hand of change ha stouched the scene,—
No more are meads of pleasant green;
The thin few trees have much ado
To leaf a little, and renew
The ravage of the autumn suns
By channels where no water runs.
But as of old the tettix trills,
The bee booms past to heather hills,
And in the mountain gullies deep
The blue noon shadows lie asleep.
No more are meads of pleasant green;
The thin few trees have much ado
To leaf a little, and renew
The ravage of the autumn suns
By channels where no water runs.
But as of old the tettix trills,
The bee booms past to heather hills,
And in the mountain gullies deep
The blue noon shadows lie asleep.
Yet not alone—for by the stream
Were two that walked the path of dream;
The one, who seemed the type and flower
Of Athens in her golden hour,
When youth and strength were tuned to grace;
And one, the plain, familiar face—
The man that I would rather meet
Some evening in the tripod-street,
With gait uncouth and dome-shaped brow,
Than all the world of then or now:
The thick lips parted, and the hands
Close clasped behind his back, he stands,
With head thrust out, and starting eyes
That bear the glare of noonday skies.
Were two that walked the path of dream;
38
Of Athens in her golden hour,
When youth and strength were tuned to grace;
And one, the plain, familiar face—
The man that I would rather meet
Some evening in the tripod-street,
With gait uncouth and dome-shaped brow,
Than all the world of then or now:
The thick lips parted, and the hands
Close clasped behind his back, he stands,
With head thrust out, and starting eyes
That bear the glare of noonday skies.
And first the younger had his say,
That presence like a fresh spring day,
An eloquent impulsive strain,
While I sat quiet by the plane.
That presence like a fresh spring day,
An eloquent impulsive strain,
While I sat quiet by the plane.
Then might he hear who listened well
The tale I heard the elder tell:
Of love's ideal, which is truth,
The fluttering of the soul of youth
Aspiring still to seek above
That far-off, dim-remembered love,
Till, gazing up to heavenly things,
It finds at last the long-lost wings.
The tale I heard the elder tell:
Of love's ideal, which is truth,
The fluttering of the soul of youth
Aspiring still to seek above
That far-off, dim-remembered love,
39
It finds at last the long-lost wings.
The noon goes by, the even rose
Fades up Hymettus' side and goes,
A wind comes shoreward from the sea,
And wakes a rustle in the tree,
The shadows fall, and even so
The dream is done; yet, ere I go,
I, too, may pray the prayer he prayed
To Pan and whatso Dryad maid
Possessed the soul of summer trees
And shed sweet influence over these,
If not to such, as best I know
The prayer he made long years ago,
For beauty in the inward soul—
The path is changed but not the goal.
Fades up Hymettus' side and goes,
A wind comes shoreward from the sea,
And wakes a rustle in the tree,
The shadows fall, and even so
The dream is done; yet, ere I go,
I, too, may pray the prayer he prayed
To Pan and whatso Dryad maid
Possessed the soul of summer trees
And shed sweet influence over these,
If not to such, as best I know
The prayer he made long years ago,
For beauty in the inward soul—
The path is changed but not the goal.
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |