Orpheus

Whose star-blossoms run, | Kiss, tremble, and shiver, And roll into ultimate space, and are lost to man’s vision for ever. Come forth to the sound Of the lightning lyre, Ye valleys profound As a man’s desire, Ye woodlands bound In the hills that are higher Than even the note of a bird as it wings to the solar fire! Ye fruits and corn, Gold, rose, and green, Vines purple-born, Pearl-hidden sheen, Trees waving in scorn Of the grass between ! Come forth in your chorus, and chant the praise of your mother and queen! Ye trees many-fronded That shake to the wind, Green leaves that have sounded My harp in your kind, Light boughs that are rounded, Grey tops that are shrined In the tears of the heaven as they fall in the blackening storm grown blind! 58