Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl.
What would the great world lose, I wonder-- Would it be missed or no-- If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so?
Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day-- Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away!
My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness-- Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken-- Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
_Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _To Arcady, to Arcady;_ _Oh, what's the way to Arcady,_ _Where all the leaves are merry?_
Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree-- The tree the wind is blowing through-- It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.
Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.
_Oh, I am bound for Arcady,_ _And if you but keep pace with me_ _You tread the way to Arcady._
And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?
_Ah, that_ (quoth he) _I do not know--_ _Across the clover and the snow--_ _Across the frost, across the flowers--_ _Through summer seconds and winter hours._ _I've trod the way my whole life long,_ _And know not now where it may be;_ _My guide is but the stir to song._ _That tells me I can not go wrong,_ _Or clear or dark the pathway be_ _Upon the road to Arcady._