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 PROEM.

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet

As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;

There is no metre that's half so fine

As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;

And the loveliest lyric I ever heard

Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.—

If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach

My heart their beautiful parts of speech.

And the natural art that they say these with,

My soul would sing of beauty and myth

In a rhyme and a metre that none before

Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore,

And the world would be richer one poet the more.

VISIONS AND VOICES 

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Myth and Romance

Myth and 

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