The apple breasts his fellow; doves wheel by two and three, And ever dance in circle the shallops on the sea; The goats and deer are many; but playmate none hath he, Nor nymph nor child to follow upon his signals rude; He smiles: there is no frolic; he snarls: there is no feud. He feels his poor heart sinking at every interlude. His shaggy ear and freakish resents the wail and din; Earth’s rumors chill his veins with their ghostly gliding in; He aches to slip these tethers, and be where he hath been. Elsewhere is waking glory, and here the dream, the thrall. Hush! hear the sunless waters, the wrestling leaves that call! He lops the grass, and whistles; and while he cheats them all, Obeys, is gone, gone wholly. From alien air too cold, The Faun, with garlands flying, with sylvan ditties trolled, Being homesick, being patient, regains his greenwood old. KNIGHTS OF WEATHER. WHEN down the filmy lanes The too wise sun goes grieving, A wake of splendor leaving Upbillowed from the ground; When at the window-panes The hooded chestnuts rattle, And there is clash of battle New England’s oaks around: Oh, then we knights of weather, We birds of sober feather, Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing, The Saracen October Astride the hurricane! When dappled butterflies Have crept away to cover, And one persistent plover Is coaxing from the fen; When apples show the skies Their bubbly lush vermilion, And from a rent pavilion Laugh down on maids and men: Oh, then we knights of weather, We birds of sober feather, Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing, The Saracen October Astride the hurricane! When pricks the winy air; When o’er the meadows clamber Cloud-masonries of amber; When brooks are silver-clear; When conquering colors dare The hills and cliffy places, To hold, with braggart graces, High wassail of the year: Oh, then we knights of weather, We birds of sober feather, Fill up the woods with revel That summer’s pomp is slain; And make a mighty shouting For King October’s outing, The Saracen October Astride the hurricane! DAYBREAK. THE young sun rides the mists anew; his cohorts follow from the sea. Let Aztec children shout and sue, the Persian lend a thankful knee: Those glad auroral eyes shall beam not anywhere henceforth on me. Up with the banners on the height, set every matin bell astir! The tree-top choirs carouse in light; the dew’s on phlox and lavender: Ah, mockery! for, worlds away, the heart of morning beats with her. ON SOME OLD-MUSIC.