s their leaves are freaked and scored: The fable-flowering land wherein they grew Hath dreams for stars, and grey romance for dew: Perchance no flower thence plucked may flower anew.
No part have these wan legends in the sun Whose glory lightens Greece and gleams on Rome. Their elders live: but these--their day is done, Their records written of the wind in foam Fly down the wind, and darkness takes them home. What Homer saw, what Virgil dreamed, was truth, And dies not, being divine: but whence, in sooth, Might shades that never lived win deathless youth?
The fields of fable, by the feet of faith Untrodden, bloom not where such deep mist drives. Dead fancy's ghost, not living fancy's wraith, Is now the storied sorrow that survives Faith in the record of these lifeless lives. Yet Milton's sacred feet have lingered there, His lips have made august the fabulous air, His hands have touched and left the wild weeds fair.
So, in some void and thought-untrammelled hour, Let these fi