THE VALE OF TEMPÉ
The river that winds through the Vale of Tempé is white,
Smokily white, like water opaque with a charm,
Olympus knows why. He towers there, frostily bright,
And Ossa forth stretches a slaty, precipice arm,—
Deepening silvery pools into green-clouded light,—
So that Tempé is hidden and secret and free from alarm.
But the green Vale of Tempé leads forth to the stir of the Sea
Where the battleships growl and where Salonica is held
Fast in the grip of the Powers, who fight for the key
Unlocking the Border-doors; if Tempé were shelled,
Then the white Peneios, veiled as for bridal, would be
Scarlet with blood of soldiers, like forests felled.
Pindar, Spenser, Shelley, Byron,—ye bards—
Lyric-tongued all! What if the fair Tempé glade,
Where delicate flowers gleam on the virginal swards
And the cuckoo pipes to the shy-footed dryad-maid
And the trees hide Daphne,—What if the horror-mad hordes
Trample this Pastoral, where old Mythology stayed?
They answer not and the soft Peneios is veiled,
’Mid the joy of the fauns and flowers and river-born shade.
But an old Belief in the smoky-white water is trailed—
Who knows but Apollo, fierce for his pagan glade—
Will hasten, haughtily, in shining sun-armor mailed,
And carry it off to the Greek gods’ ambuscade?