Within your childish heart there dwells No sorrow that uprising dims Your eye, whence not a teardrop wells For pity of those writhen limbs, Or for the travail of a race Consummate in one lifeless face. Though tinkling caravans go by Forever over twilight sands, With myrrh and cassia laden high For other shrines in other lands, No weight of grief thereat you know, But softly on your pan-pipes blow. From what dim mountain have you strayed, Where, ringed by the Hellenic seas, You dwelt in an untrodden glade Sacred to woodland deities, Along whose faint paths went at dawn Endymion or a dancing faun? From groves where sacrificing throngs Called you by some fair Grecian name, With ritual meet and choric songs, Strange, that to this dark hill you came To seek, unmindful of their loss, A refuge underneath the cross. There is some deeper secret lies Hidden out of human sight In keeping of those tranquil eyes That shine with such immortal light, And in their shadows gleam and glow While still upon your pipes you blow. All but inscrutable, your gaze Declares your place is even here, Sharing this martyr's cup of praise, And year by sadly westering year, Till the last altar lights grow dim, Dividing sovereignty with him. THE PHILOSOPHER'S GARDEN Some strange and exquisite desire Has thrilled this flowering almond tree Whose branches shake so wistfully, Else wherefore does it bloom in fire? Why scatter pollen on the air, Marry its pale buds each to each, The year's unkindly tempests bear, Or to the calm clear sunlight reach? Yet I can give that hope no name, Nor that divine emotion share, For, though I see it flowering there, Because our speech is not the same The passionate secret must lie hid Burdened with unexpressed delight, Where none of all man's race can bid It forth, or voice its beauty right. There's nought in earth or heaven knows That hope for which our being longs, The stars are busied with their songs, The universal springtime flows From sun to sun in scorn of man, Careless if he be quick or dead, Or if this earth, as it began, Be voiceless and untenanted. THE TREE OF STARS There stands a tree where no man knows, And like an earthly tree it grows, Save that upon its branches wide The earth and all the stars beside, The chilly moon and the great sun, The little planets, one by one, Are hung like fruit to redden there And ripen in the heavenly air. And when the seeds are round and full The watchful gods will come and pull The ripened fruit from off the tree; And then that heavenly company Will bear the shining planets in And garner them in a deep bin And sort them out, and save the seed To plant new trees in time of need. AFTER RAIN