And a day was arisen indeed for us. Years and the changes of years Clothed round with their joys and their sorrows, and dead as their hopes and their fears, Lie noteless and nameless, unlit by remembrance or record of days Worth wonder or memory, or cursing or blessing, or passion or praise, Between us who live and forget not, but yearn with delight in it yet, And the day we forget not, and never may live and may think to forget. And the years that were kindlier and fairer, and kindled with pleasures as keen, Have eclipsed not with lights or with shadows the light on the face of it seen. For softly and surely, as nearer the boat that we gazed from drew, The face of the precipice opened and bade us as birds pass through, And the bark shot sheer to the sea through the strait of the sharp steep cleft, The portal that opens with imminent rampires to right and to left, Sublime as the sky they darken and strange as a spell-struck dream, On the world unconfined of the mountains, the reign of the sea supreme, The kingdom of westward waters, wherein when we swam we knew The waves that we clove were boundless, the wind on our brows that blew Had swept no land and no lake, and had warred not on tower or on tree, But came on us hard out of heaven, and alive with the soul of the sea. THE PALACE OF PAN INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER September, all glorious with gold, as a king In the radiance of triumph attired, Outlightening the summer, outsweetening the spring, Broods wide on the woodlands with limitless wing, A presence of all men desired. Far eastward and westward the sun-coloured lands Smile warm as the light on them smiles; And statelier than temples upbuilded with hands, Tall column by column, the sanctuary stands Of the pine-forest's infinite aisles. Mute worship, too fervent for praise or for prayer, Possesses the spirit with peace, Fulfilled with the breath of the luminous air, The fragrance, the silence, the shadows as fair As the rays that recede or increase. Ridged pillars that redden aloft and aloof, With never a branch for a nest, Sustain the sublime indivisible roof, To the storm and the sun in his majesty proof, And awful as waters at rest. Man's hand hath not measured the height of them; thought May measure not, awe may not know; In its shadow the woofs of the woodland are wrought; As a bird is the sun in the toils of them caught, And the flakes of it scattered as snow.