VII.


She scanned the record of Beethoven's thought,
And made the dumb chords speak both clear and low,
And spread the dead man's voice till I was caught
Away, and now seemed long and long ago.
Methought in Tellus' bosom still I lay,
While centuries like steeds tramped overhead,
To the wild rhythms that, by night and day,
From nature and man's passions still are made.
The music of their motion as they pranced
Lulled me to flawless ease as of a God;
Never upon me pain or pleasure chanced;
Unknown the dew of bliss, or fate's hard rod.
Thus dreamed I ... But I know our mother Earth
Waits to give back the peace she reft at birth.





VIII.


By mead and marsh and sandhill clad with bent,
Soothed by the wistful musings of the wind
That in scarce listening ears are mildly dinned,
On plods the traveller till the day be spent,
And day-dreams end in dreamless night at last.