The Frogs

BREATHERS of wisdom won without a quest,
Quaint, uncouth dreamers, voices high and strange,
Flutist of lands where beauty hath no change,
And wintery grief is a forgotten guest ;
Sweet murmurers of everlasting rest,
For whom glad days have ever yet to run,
And moments are as seons, and the sun
But ever half-way sunken toward the west.
Often to me who heard you in your day,
With close-wrapped ears, it could not choose but seem
That earth, our mother, searching in what way
Men's hearts might know her spirit's inmost dream,
Ever at rest beneath life's change and stir,
Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her.

In those mute days, when spring was in her glee,
And hope was strong, we know not why or how,
And earth, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow,
Musing on life, and what the hours might be,
When love should ripen to maternity,
Then, like high flutes in silvery interchange,
Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange,
And ever as ye piped, on every tree
The great buds swelled ; among the pensive woods
The spirits of first flowers awoke, and flung
From buried faces the close-fitting hoods,
And listened to your piping till they fell,
The frail spring beauty, with her perfumed bell,
'The wind flower, and the spotted adder tongue.

All the day long, wherever pools might be
Among the golden meadows, where the air
Stood in a dream, as it were moored there
For ever in a noontide reverie ;
Or where the birds made riot of their glee
In the still woods, and the hot sun shone down,
Crossed with warm shadows, on the brown
Leaf-paven pools, that bubbled dreamily ;
Or far away in whispering river meads
And watery marshes, where the brooding noon,
Full with the wonder of its own sweet boon,
Nestled and slept among the noiseless reeds,
Ye sat and murmured motionless as they
With eyes that dreamed beyond the night and day.

And when day passed, and over heaven's height,
Thin with the many stars, and cool with dew,
The fingers of the deep hours slowly drew
The wonder of the ever-heating night,
No grief or loneliness, or wrapped delight,
Or weight of silence, ever brought to you
Slumber or rest ; only your voices grew
More high and solemn. Slowly with hushed flight
Ye saw the echoing hours go by, long drawn,
Nor ever stirred, watching with fathomless eyes,
And with your countless clear antiphonies
Filling the earth and heaven, even till dawn,
Last risen, found you with its first pale gleam,
Still with soft throats unaltered in your dream.

And slowly, as we heard you day by day,
The stillness of enchanted reveries
Bound brain and spirit and half-closed eyes
In some divine sweet wonder-dream astray ;
To us no sorrow or upreared dismay,
Nor any discord came ; but evermore
The voices of mankind, the outer roar,
Grew strange and murmurous, faint and far away ;
Morning and noon and midnight exquisitely
Wrapped with your voices, this alone we knew;
Cities might change and fall, and men might die,
Secure were we, content to dream with you,
That change and pain are shadows faint and fleet,
And dreams are real, and life is only sweet.