A Classic Landscape

This wood might be some Grecian heritage
Of the antique world, this hoary ilex wood;
So broad the shade, so deep the solitude,
So grey the air where Oread fancies brood.

Beyond, the fields are tall with purple sage;
The sky bends downward like a purple sheet—
A purple wind-filled sail—i' the noonday heat;
And past the river shine the fields of wheat.

O tender wheat, O starry saxifrage,
O deep-red tulips, how the fields are fair!
Far off the mountains pierce the quivering air,
Ash-coloured, mystical, remote, and bare.

How far they look, the Mountains of Mirage
Or northern Hills of Heaven, how far away!
In front the long paulonia-blossoms sway
From leafless boughs across that dreamy grey.

O world, how worthy of a golden age!
How might Theocritus have sung and found
The Oreads here, the Naiads gathering round,
Their pallid locks still dripping to the ground!

For me, O world, thou art how mere a stage,
Whereon the human soul must act alone,
In a dead language, with the plot unknown,
Nor learn what happens when the play is done.