Oberon, Elferon,
Pleasant Prince of Faery!
He should scarce be sung of me,—
Me, his humblest follower
Wheresoe’er a branch may stir
Signing, “This way hath he gone,
Oberon, Elferon,
Pleasant Prince of Faery!”
He should scarce be sung of me;
Yet, because, of his high grace,
I had glimpse once of his face,—
Moment sweet to think upon!—
I his celebrant will be.
Blood of Pan is in his veins,
And oft he goes in great Pan’s guise;
But not of Pan is all his mood,
Godlike-careless, dreamy-wise:
Conscious he of mortal pains!
He hath shadows in his eyes
Such as under hemlocks brood;
In his voice he hath a tone
Like unto the dark pine’s moan;
Northland bore him, not the South!
Yet rare laughters hath his mouth,
Birch-leaf laughters, rippling light.
Clear the sense of every sign
Is unto his perfect sight,
Sight as May-day morning young:
Sounds unto his hearing fine
Are as words of some known tongue.
Cuckoo-flower by Avon’s brim,
Muskrose rich, or eglantine,
Saith nor more nor less to him
Than arbutus softly saith
With its blush and with its breath.
Nightingale in Attic wood
Is no deeper understood
Than our bent-browed mocker gray,
With his bright eye cool and clear,
Sad and tender, wild and gay,
Dashing skeptic cavalier!
He hath not the virtue missed
In our violet’s amethyst,
All unscented as it grows:
Healings hid in jewel-tints
Of wing and petal well he knows!
Gems the shining black-bird shows
On his purple as he goes,
And the blue jay’s sapphire-glints,
And the burning, cordial gold
Of the oriole blithe and bold.
He can read the cipher-prints
On the vans of butterflies,
On the eggs of tiniest wren;
He can read the scarred rock’s hints
And the legends of the skies;
And he can read the hearts of men.
Ah, since thou hast smiled on me,
Though thy face no more I see,
Never win thy benison,
I must follow, follow thee,—
Oberon, Elferon,
Pleasant Prince of Poesy!