The meadow-maiden left her daffodils

To join the Hamadryades who groaned

Over a sister newly fallen dead.

That Life might perish out of Arcady

From immemorial times was never said;

Yet here one lay dead by her dead oak-tree.

"Who made our Hamadryad cold and mute?"

The others cried in sorrow and in wonder.

"I," answered Death, close by in ashen suit;

"Yet fear not me for this, nor start asunder;

Arcadian life shall keep its ancient zest

Though I be here. My name?—is it not Rest?"

II.

"Et in Arcadia ego ..."

"What traveller soever wander here

In quest of peace and what is best of pleasure,

Let not his hope be overcast and drear

Because I, Death, am here to fix the measure

Of life, even in blameless Arcady.

Bay, laurel, myrtle, ivy never sere,

 Prev. P 8/27 next