That my thoughts spur past
Where you have been,
And, like hounds that have slipped the leash,
They race,--
Bell-tongued brachets
Upon your trace.

Through the black forest
You reach, you run,
Out of the shadow,
Into the sun.
And the hunt behind
Is lyric and loud
Where horses and hounds
And huntsmen crowd....

But you are gone--
Oh, you are gone
Out to the blaze and glory of dawn!
Leaving the print of blood-red anemones
In the mould, and echoes of ancient glees
Shaking like silver leaves on my sombre trees!


ARISTEAS RELATES HIS YOUTH

(_Who, in his age, was reported a magician throughout all Greece, as
it was said that his soul could leave his body at will._)

Early rose was the light