So through the chestnut groves he passed, And through the land and far away; Nor know I whether in the world He found la dame de ses pensées. 

And through the land and far away;

He found la dame de ses pensées.

 Only I know that in the South Long to the harp his tale was told; Sweet as new wine within the mouth The small, choice words and music old. 

Long to the harp his tale was told;

The small, choice words and music old.

 To scorn the promise of the real; To seek and seek and not to find; Yet cherish still the fair ideal— It is thy fate, O restless Mind! 

To seek and seek and not to find;

It is thy fate, O restless Mind!

 

 

   ECCE IN DESERTO 

 The wilderness a secret keeps Upon whose guess I go: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard; And yet I know, I know, 

Upon whose guess I go:

And yet I know, I know,

 Some day the viewless latch will lift, The airy door swing wide To one lost chamber of the wood Where those shy mysteries hide,— 

The airy door swing wide

Where those shy mysteries hide,—

 One yet unfound, receding depth, From which the wood-thrush sings, Still luring in to darker shades, In—in to colder springs. 

From which the wood-thrush sings,

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