Page:Songs from Vagabondia (1897).djvu/29

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Let them in charnel-houses pass their livesAnd seek in death life’s secret! And letThose hard-faced worldlings prematurely oldGnaw their thin lips with vain desire to getPortia’s fair fame or Lesbia’s carcanet,Or crown of Cæsar or Catullus,Apicius’ lampreys or Crassus’ gold!For these consider many things—but yetBy land nor seaThey shall not find the way to Arcady,The old home of the awful heart-dear Mother,Whereto child-dreams and long rememberings lull us,Far from the cares that overlay and smotherThe memories of old woodland out-door mirthIn the dim first life-burst centuries ago,The sense of the freedom and nearness of Earth—Nay, this they shall not know;For who goes thither,Leaves all the cark and clutch of his soul behind,The doves defiled and the serpents shrined,The hates that wax and the hopes that wither;Nor does he journey, seeking where it be,But wakes and finds himself in Arcady.
Hist! there’s a stir in the brush.Was it a face through the leaves?Back of the laurels a skurry and rushHillward, then silence except for the thrushThat throws one song from the dark of the bushAnd is gone; and I plunge in the wood, and the swift soul cleavesThrough the swirl and the flow of the leaves,As a swimmer stands with his white limbs bare to the sun

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