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the gentle thud of a horse's stride； With the swift…falling steps of many
dogs； Following； following at my side。 O Roads that journey to fairyland！
Radiant highways whose vistas gleam； Leading me on； under crimson
leaves； To the opaline gates of the Castles of Dream。
Teatro Bambino。 Dublin； N。 H。
How still it is！ Sunshine itself here falls In quiet shafts of light
through the high trees Which； arching； make a roof above the walls
Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze Lingers a moment； charmed
by the strange sight Of an Italian theatre； storied； seer Of vague romance；
and time's long history； Where tiers of grass…grown seats sprinkled with
white； Sweet…scented clover； form a broken sphere Grouped round the
stage in hushed expectancy。
What sound is that which echoes through the wood？ Is it the reedy
note of an oaten pipe？ Perchance a minute more will see the brood Of
the shaggy forest god； and on his lip Will rest the rushes he is wont to play。
His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit And weave a dance with ropes
of gray acorns； So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway As they the
measure tread to the lilting flute。 Alas！ 't is only Fancy thus adorns。
A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun。 How damp it seems； how
silent； still； and strange！ Surely 't was here some tragedy was done； And
here the chorus sang each coming change？ Sure this is deep in some sweet；
southern wood； These are not pines； but cypress tall and dark； That is
no thrush which sings so rapturously； But the nightingale in his most
passionate mood Bursting his little heart with anguish。 Hark！ The
tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly。
The silence almost is a sound； and dreams Take on the semblances of
finite things； So potent is the spell that what but seems Elsewhere； is
lifted here on Fancy's wings。 The little woodland theatre seems to wait；
All tremulous with hope and wistful joy； For something that is sure to
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come at last； Some deep emotion； satisfying； great。 It grows a living
presence； bold and shy； Cradling the future in a glorious past。
The Road to Avignon
A Minstrel stands on a marble stair； Blown by the bright wind；
debonair； Below lies the sea； a sapphire floor； Above on the terrace a turret
door Frames a lady； listless and wan； But fair for the eye to rest upon。 The
minstrel plucks at his silver strings； And looking up to the lady； sings：
Down the road to Avignon； The long； long road to Avignon；
Across the bridge to Avignon； One morning in the spring。
The octagon tower casts a shade Cool and gray like a cutlass blade； In
sun…baked vines the cicalas spin； The little green lizards run out and in。 A
sail dips over the ocean's rim； And bubbles rise to the fountain's brim。 The
minstrel touches his silver strings； And gazing up to the lady； sings：
Down the road to Avignon； The long； long road to Avignon；
Across the bridge to Avignon； One morning in the spring。
Slowly she walks to the balustrade； Idly notes how the blossoms fade
In the sun's caress； then crosses where The shadow shelters a carven chair。
Within its curve； supine she lies； And wearily closes her tired eyes。 The
minstrel beseeches his silver strings； And holding the lady spellbound；
sings： Down the road to Avignon； The long； long road to
Avignon； Across the bridge to Avignon； One morning in the
spring。
Clouds sail over the distant trees； Petals are shaken down by the breeze；
They fall on the terrace tiles like snow； The sighing of waves sounds； far
below。 A humming…bird kisses the lips of a rose Then laden with honey
and love he goes。 The minstrel woos with his silver strings； And climbing
up to the lady； sings： Down the road to Avignon； The long； long
road to Avignon； Across the bridge to Avignon； One morning in
the spring。
Step by step； and he comes to her； Fearful lest she suddenly stir。
Sunshine and silence； and each to each； The lute and his singing their only
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
speech； He leans above her； her eyes unclose； The humming…bird enters
another rose。 The minstrel hushes his silver strings。 Hark！ The beating of
humming…birds' wings！ Down the road to Avignon； The long；
long road to Avignon； Across the bridge to Avignon； One morning
in the spring。
New York at Night
A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden
heaviness； and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul； and
chimneys lie And snort； outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud。 I
hear the sigh The goaded city gives； not day Nor night can ease her heart；
her anguished labours stay。
Below； straight streets； monotonous； From north and south； from east
and west； Stretch glittering； and luminous Above； one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man's constant quest： Time！ Joyless emblem of the
greed Of millions； robber of the best Which earth can give； the vulgar
creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed。
O Night！ Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the
stars。 O Night！ Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that
scars Are hid from our own eyes。 Beggars By day； our wealth is having
night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree…shadowed； where the
light Is shed from a young moon； mysteriously bright。
Where art thou hiding； where thy peace？ This is the hour； but thou
art not。 Will waking tumult never cease？ Hast thou thy votary forgot？
Nature forsakes this man…begot And festering wilderness； and now The
long still hours are here； no jot Of dear comm