THE OLD QUEST
“Feed in joy thine own flock and look on thine own land.”—Greek Anthology.
“Friend! hast thou seen the rosy mass
Of cyclamen along the pass
To Arcady?
Doth the green country sweep enlarge
Beneath the white cloud’s floating barge?
Does the sun lift a gleaming targe
On Arcady?
“Hold.... Do the trees keep happy nests
Between the young leaves’ trembling breasts
In Arcady?
Does running water laugh and sing,
Do butterflies waft wing-and-wing?
Spins the white moon her mystic ring
O’er Arcady?
“Speak!—Are there greenwoods cool and dense,
Do flower-grails gleam out from thence
In Arcady?
Do pines the aisles and arches blur,
With frankincense and breaths of myrrh,
Veiling the happy forms that stir
Through Arcady?
“Thou seest that I am blind,”—said he,
“But hast thou been where I would be
In Arcady?
Oh! didst thou see within the gate
The one who promised me to wait?
Stays she for me, though I come late
To Arcady?
“I wonder that she doth not send
A clue to show the roads that trend
To Arcady—
But thou canst tell me. Does it rise
Empinnacled to azure skies?...
Thou sayst?... None knoweth where it lies,
Fair Arcady!”
’Tis sunset and the end of day,
The roads are closed—so all men say—
To Arcady.
The birds and butterflies are fled;
The honey quaffed; the perfume shed;
The feet that used to dance are sped
From Arcady.
“The roads are closed?... Oh, not to me!
Thou seest that I am blind,” said he.
“And Arcady?...
Full well I know thou liest now,
Hast thou the world-mark on thy brow?
Hast thou no one to ’wait thee—thou?
In Arcady?”
He wanders down the darkling way
The mute horizons watch him stray
Toward Arcady.
His feet are bleeding, he is blind,
He dreams of that he will not find,
But in his wide unconquered mind
Lives Arcady!