The lyre entices fast
Our willing feet and wings,
We wonder from the past
What spell is overcast
From off the sonant strings.
Awhile we deem our mates
Are calling through the wood ;
Awhile the tune creates
These unfamiliar states
Of thinking solitude.
Awhile we gather clear
A note of promise swell,
A song of fate and fear,
Assuring us who hear
Of other shapes to dwell.
A promise vast and grand,
As is the spangled sky !
We dimly understand ;
We join the following band
Of dancing greenery !
We see all Nature bend
To high Olympus’ hill.
Our tunes we choose and send ;
We follow to the end,
O Orpheus, all thy will.
79