'Tis the feast of corn, 'tis the feast of bread, On the dear scene returned to, witnessed again! So white is the light o'er the reapers shed Their shadows fall pink on the level grain. The stalked gold drops to the whistling flight Of the scythes, whose lightning dives deep, leaps clear; The plain, labor-strewn to the confines of sight, Changes face at each instant, gay and severe. All pants, all is effort and toil 'neath the sun, The stolid old sun, tranquil ripener of wheat, Who works o'er our haste imperturbably on To swell the green grape yon, turning it sweet. Work on, faithful sun, for the bread and the wine, Feed man with the milk of the earth, and bestow The frank glass wherein unconcern laughs divine,-- Ye harvesters, vintagers, work on, aglow! For from the flour's fairest, and from the vine's best, Fruit of man's strength spread to earth's uttermost, God gathers and reaps, to His purposes blest, The Flesh and the Blood for the chalice and host! Jadis et Naguere Jadis PROLOGUE Off, be off, now, graceless pack: Get you gone, lost children mine: Your release is earned in fine: The Chimaera lends her back. Huddling on her, go, God-sped, As a dream-horde crowds and cowers Mid the shadowy curtain-flowers Round a sick man's haunted bed. Hold! My hand, unfit before, Feeble still, but feverless, And which palpitates no more Save with a desire to bless, Blesses you, O little flies Of my black suns and white nights. Spread your rustling wings, arise, Little griefs, little delights, Hopes, despairs, dreams foul and fair, All!--renounced since yesterday By my heart that quests elsewhere.... Ite, aegri somnia! LANGUEUR I am the Empire in the last of its decline, That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while Composing indolent acrostics, in a style Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line. The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile Ennui. Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine. Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,-- Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire! Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, hast done laughing, pray? Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say! Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one; Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun! Naguere [Illustration: "Crepuscule du Soir Mystique."] PROLOGUE Glimm'ring twilight things are these, Visions of the end of night. Truth, thou lightest them, I wis, Only with a distant light,