Solitary, before daybreak, in a garden Dark amid the unchanging snow,
Watching the last star fading in a fountain Whence melodies of eternal water
flow, Festus, seeing the sky-line burn and brighten Coldly, far above the
hidden sun; Seeing the golden thread of glory unravelled Along the wall of
mountains run, Hears in his heart a cry of bewilderment; And turning, now here,
now there-- Like one who pauses a moment before departure-- Partakes of the
grace of earth and air, Drinks of the vast blue splendour of the sky, The mile
on mile of dew-blanched grass, The cloud-swept trees, the stones, bare cliffs
of bronze; And in the pool, as in a glass, Ringed round with nodding asters,
frosted leaf-tips, Stoops to see his image; and behold, How faded is the
scarlet of his mantle! His face, how changed and old! . . . Sing now the birds;
on every bough a bird sings; Slowly at first, then fast and faster, Till the
walled garden thrills and shrills with music; The cricket beneath the violet
aster Cries his joy to heaven as the first beam strikes him-- The foxgloves
bend beneath a weight of bees; Praise! Praise! Praise! the chorus rises,
Drowsily, happily, dumbly, sway the trees. Fades the star in the mountain, and
the sun comes. How motionless stands Festus there! A red leaf, falling slowly
to meet a red leaf That rises out of the infinite to the air, Floats, is turned
by the wind about its image . . . Ah Festus, is this you, This ruin of man
about whom leaves fall coldly And asters nod their dew? . . . Pale, phantasmal,
swirls the forest of birches, It is a dance of witch-girls white and slim;
Delicately flash their slender hands in the sunlight! Cymbals hiss, their eyes
are dim Under the mist of hair they toss above them . . . But Festus, turning
never, Heeding them not, nor the birds, nor the cricket shrilling, Stares at
the pool for ever, Seeking in vain to find--somewhere, somewhere!-- In the
pool, himself, the sky?-- The slight, clear, beautiful secret of these marvels,
Of birch, birds, cricket's cry, Blue sky, blue pool, the red leaf falling and
floating, The wall of mountains, the garden, the snow, And one old man--how
sinister and bedraggled!-- Cawing there like a crow . . . Instant the miracle
is. He leans bewildered Over the infinite, to search it through . . . Loud sing
the birds! On every bough a bird sings; The cricket shrills, the day is blue.