How still it is! Sunshine itself here

falls

In quiet shafts of light through the high trees

Which, arching, make a roof above the walls

Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze

Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight

Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer

Of vague romance, and times long history;

Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,

Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere

Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

What sound is that which echoes through the wood?

Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?

Perchance a minute more will see the brood

Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip

Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.

His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit

And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,

So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway

As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.

Alas! t is only Fancy thus adorns.

A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.

How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!

Surely t was here some tragedy was done,

And here the chorus sang each coming change?

Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,

These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;

That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,

But the nightingale in his most passionate mood

Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!

The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams

Take on the semblances of finite things;

So potent is the spell that what but seems

Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancys wings.

The little woodland theatre seems to wait,

All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,

For something that is sure to come at last,

Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.

It grows a living presence, bold and shy,

Cradling the future in a glorious past.

How still it is! Sunshine itself here

falls

In quiet shafts of light through the high trees

Which, arching, make a roof above the walls

Changing from sun to shadow as each breeze

Lingers a moment, charmed by the strange sight

Of an Italian theatre, storied, seer

Of vague romance, and times long history;

Where tiers of grass-grown seats sprinkled with white,

Sweet-scented clover, form a broken sphere

Grouped round the stage in hushed expectancy.

What sound is that which echoes through the wood?

Is it the reedy note of an oaten pipe?

Perchance a minute more will see the brood

Of the shaggy forest god, and on his lip

Will rest the rushes he is wont to play.

His train in woven baskets bear ripe fruit

And weave a dance with ropes of gray acorns,

So light their touch the grasses scarcely sway

As they the measure tread to the lilting flute.

Alas! t is only Fancy thus adorns.

A cloud drifts idly over the shining sun.

How damp it seems, how silent, still, and strange!

Surely t was here some tragedy was done,

And here the chorus sang each coming change?

Sure this is deep in some sweet, southern wood,

These are not pines, but cypress tall and dark;

That is no thrush which sings so rapturously,

But the nightingale in his most passionate mood

Bursting his little heart with anguish. Hark!

The tread of sandalled feet comes noiselessly.

The silence almost is a sound, and dreams

Take on the semblances of finite things;

So potent is the spell that what but seems

Elsewhere, is lifted here on Fancys wings.

The little woodland theatre seems to wait,

All tremulous with hope and wistful joy,

For something that is sure to come at last,

Some deep emotion, satisfying, great.

It grows a living presence, bold and shy,

Cradling the future in a glorious past.