The children at thy foot Open new-lighted eyes, Where, on gnarled bark and root, The soft warm sunshine lies-- Dost thou, upon thine ancient sides, resent The touch of youth, quick and impermanent? These at the beck of spring Live in the moment still: Thy boughs unquivering, Remembering winter's chill, And many other winters past and gone, Are mocked, not cheated, by the transient sun. Hast thou so much withstood, Tempest-despising tree, That now thy hollow wood Stiffens disdainfully Against the soft spring airs and soft spring rain, Knowing too well that winter comes again? FETE GALANTE; THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE Aristonoe, the fading shepherdess, Gathers the young girls round her in a ring, Teaching them wisdom of love, What to say, how to dress, How frown, how smile, How suitors to their dancing feet to bring, How in mere walking to beguile, What words cunningly said in what a way Will draw man's busy fancy astray, All the alphabet, grammar and syntax of love. The garden smells are sweet, Daisies spring in the turf under the high-heeled feet, Dense, dark banks of laurel grow Behind the wavering row Of golden, flaxen, black, brown, auburn heads, Behind the light and shimmering dresses Of these unreal, modern shepherdesses; And gaudy flowers in formal patterned beds Vary the dim long vistas of the park, Far as the eye can see, Till at the forest's edge the ground grows dark And the flowers vanish in the obscurity. The young girls gather round her, Remembering eagerly how their fathers found her Fresh as a spring-like wind in February, Subtler in her moving heart than sun-motes that vary At every waft of an opening and shutting door; They gather chattering near, Hush, break out in laughter, whisper aside, Grow silent more and more, Though she will never chide. Now through the silence sounds her voice still clear, And all give ear. Like a silver thread through the golden afternoon, Equably the voice discloses All that age-old wisdom; like an endless tune Aristonoe's voice wavers among the roses, Level and unimpassioned, Telling them how of nothing love is fashioned, How it is but a movement of the mind, Bidding Celia mark That light skirts fluttering in the wind, Or white flowers stuck in dark Glistening hair, have fired the dull beholder, Or telling Anais That faint indifference ere now hath bred a kiss Denied to flaunted snowy breast or shoulder.