Orpheus

Ye fields that are flowered In purple and white, Embossed and embowered By the love of the light, Gold-sandalled and showered, Dew-kissed of the night, Your song is too faint and too joyous for mortals to hear it aright. Blue pansies, and roses, And poppies of red, Pale violets in posies Where Hyacinth bled, The flower that closes Its dolorous head ;— What song may be sung, or what tune may be told, or what word may be said? All tropical scent, Blossom-kindled perfume, Love-colours new-lent By the infinite womb, Gold subtlety blent With the scarlet bloom ;— Shall ye in my melody live? Shall my song be not rather your tomb? Most musical moves The head of the corn ; Strong glorious loves Of its being are born. 59