XI Through the deep night the leaves speak, tree to tree
XII I walked the hollow pavements of the town
XIII In tireless march I move from sphere to sphere
XIV A while you shared my path and solitude
XV There is a void that reason can not face
XVI The mirrors of all ages are the eyes
XVII We sat in silence till the twilight fell
XVIII He clung to me, his young face dark with woe

BOOK I A MISCELLANY

I — LA MARE DES FEES

The leaves rain down upon the forest pond,
An elfin tarn green-shadowed in the fern;
Nine yews ensomber the wet bank, beyond
The autumn branches of the beeches burn
With yellow flame and red amid the green,
And patches of the darkening sky between.

This is an ancient country; in this wood
The Druids raised their sacrificial stones;
Here the vast timeless silences still brood
Though the cold wind’s October monotones
Fan the enchanted senses with the dread
Of holiness long-past and beauty dead.

How far beyond this glade the day-world turns
Upon its pivot of reward and chance;
Farther than the first star that palely burns
Over the forest’s meditative trance. 
First star of evening, last star of day,
The one grows clear, the other dies away.

Will they come back who once beneath these trees
Invoked their long-forgotten gods with tears,
Who heard the sob of the same twilight breeze
Blow down the vistas of remembered years,
Beside the tarn’s black waters where they stood
Close to their god, far from the multitude?

I watch, but they are long ago departed,
Far as the world of day, or as the star;
The forest loved her priests, and tranquil-hearted
They stole away in dim procession, far
Down the unechoing aisles, beyond recalling;
The moss grows on the stones, the leaves are falling.

In vain I listen for their hissing speech,
And seek white holy hands upon the air,
They told their worship to the yew and beech,
And left them with the secret, trembling there,
Nor shall they come at midnight nor at dawn;
The gods are dead; the votaries are gone.

A form floats toward me down the corridor
Of mighty trees, half-visioned through the haze,
And stands beside me on that empty shore;
So rest we there, and wonderingly gaze. 
By the dead water, under the deep boughs,
My Love and I renew our ancient vows.

MORET-SUR-LOING, 1918

II — PROTHALAMION

The faded turquoise of the sky
Darkens into ocean green
Flecked palely where the stars will rise. 
A single bough between
The spacious colour and your half-closed eyes
Hangs out its hazy traceries. 
Still, like a drowsy god you lie,
My fair unbidden guest,
Your white hands crossed beneath your head,
Your lips curved strangely mute with peace,
Your hair moved lightly by the breeze. 
A glow is shed
Warm on your face from the last rays that push
From the dying sun into the green vault of the west.