A PRELUDE

A Prelude

Watching the tremulous flicker of the green

Against the open quiet of the sky,

I hear my ancient way-fellows convene

In the great wood behind me. Where I lie

They may not see me; for the grasses grow

As though no foot save June's had wandered by;

Yet I, who am well-hidden, surely know,

As I have waited them, they yearn for me

To lead them whither they are fain to go.

Weary as I, are they, O Time, of thee!

Yea, we, who once were glad only of Spring,

Gather about thy wall and would be free!

With wounded feet we cease from wandering,

And with vain hands beat idly at thy gate;

And thou,—thou hast no thought of opening,

And from thy peace are we still separate.

Yet, comrades, though ye come together there,

And search across the shadows for my face,

Until the pines murmur of your despair,

I think I shall not tell my hiding-place,

For ye know not the path ye would pursue,

And it is late our footsteps to retrace.

Too weak am I, and now not one of you—

So weary are ye of each ancient way—

Retaineth strength enough to seek a new;

And ye are blind—knowing not night from day;

Crying at noontime, "Let us see the sun!"

And with the even, "O for rest, we pray!"

O Blind and fearful! Shall I, who have won

At last this little portion of content,

Yield all to be with you again undone?

Because ye languish in your prisonment

Must I now hearken to your bitter cry?

Must I forego, as ye long since forewent,