ARE these the glad young deities we knew
Long, long ago in the world’s dawning day, —
These pallid shapes that wander here astray
In the gray vapors and the glimmering dew ?
Where are the forms of satyr, nymph, and fay,
The flash of wings in the descending blue,
The wild enchantments that about us grew
When first we heard the pipes of Pan aplay ?
Sullied with time, its mildew and its moil,
O gods immortal, crouching here so cold,
Age hath around you drawn her tightening coil,
But we are young; the far quest finds us bold
For fresh endeavor and more glorious spoil.
Alas ! alas ! how grew the gods so old ?
Ada Foster Murray.