Orpheus

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