Are one with other faces that were fair,—

That once were light, and summertime and dream,

And drifted laughter over hall and stair.

The viols end, and two by two they pass

Out of this blaze into the leafy dark,

Too ghostly and too dim across the grass,

Too soon obscured and blotted, all,—till Hark!

This old, slow music that is like a sigh

For silver feet gone, ah, how lightly by.

[40]

[40]

REDEMPTION

The old gods wait where secret beauty stirs,

By green, untempled altars of the Spring,

If haply, still, there be some worshippers

Whose hearts are moved with long remembering.

The cloven feet of Pan are on the hill,

His reedy musics sadder than all rains,

Since none will seek—pipe ever as he will—

Those unanointed and neglected fanes.

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