Sacred to sovereign Jove, and dear to thee
Since first, a venturous youth with eyes of spring,--
Whose pilgrim-staff each side put forth a wing,--
Beneath the oak thou lingeredst lovingly
To crave, as largess of his majesty,
Firm-rooted strength, and grace of leaves that sing.

He gave; we thank him! Graciousness as grave,
And power as easeful as his own he gave;
Long broodings rich with sun, and laughters kind;
And singing leaves, whose later bronze is dear
As the first amber of the budding year,--
Whose voices answer the autumnnal wind.




THE STRAYED SINGER

(MATTHEW ARNOLD)


He wandered from us long, oh, long ago,
Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied;
Into what charmed wood, what shade star-eyed
With the wind's April darlings, none may know.
We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow,
Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied
His strength in furrowed field till eventide,
And passed to slumber when the sun was low.