Songs of Voyage

Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time
  We followed on, from moon to golden moon;
  From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon,
And the far rose of Pæstum once did climb.
  All the white way beside the girdling blue,
Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime,
  We listened;  ... 

 ... 

And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are,
  That beckon with white looks an endless way;
  Where, through the fair wet silverness of May,
A lamb shines out as sudden as a star,
  Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale,
The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far,
  And the red may-trees wear a shining veil.
    And still, no nightingale!

 ... 

O Nightingale unheard! -- Unheard alone,
  Throughout that woven music of the days
  From the faint sea-rim to the market-place,
And ring of hammers on cathedral stone!
  So be it, better so: that there should fail
For sun-filled ones, one blessèd thing unknown.
  To them, be hid forever, -- and all hail!
    Sing never, Nightingale.

 ... 

Not in Kings' gardens. No; but where there haunt
  The world's forgotten, both of men and birds;
The alleys of no hope and of no words,
The hidings where men reap not, though they plant;
  But toil and thirst -- so dying and so born; -- 
And toil and thirst to gather to their want,
  From the lean waste, beyond the daylight's scorn,
     -- To gather grapes of thorn!
.    .    .    .    .    .

Oh, Agathocles, fare thee well!

Naked and brave thou goest
   Without one glance behind!
Hast thou no fear, Agathocles,
   Or backward grief of mind?

The dreamy dog beside thee
   Presses against thy knee;
He, too, oh, sweet Agathocles,
   Is deaf and visioned like thee.

Thou art so lithe and lovely
   And yet thou art not ours.
What Delphic saying compels thee
   Of kings or topless towers?

That little blowing mantle
   Thou losest from thine arm --
No shoon nor staff, Agathocles,
   Nor sword, to fend from harm!

Thou hast the changed impersonal
   Awed brow of mystery --
Yesterday thou wast burning,
   Mad boy, for Glaucoe.

Philis thy mother calls thee:
   Mine eyes with tears are dim,
Turn once, look once, Agathocles --
   (The gods have blinded him.)

Come back, Agathocles, the night --
   Brings thee what place of rest?
Wine-sweet are Glaucoe's kisses,
   Flower-soft her budding breast.

He seems to hearken, Glaucoe,
   He seems to listen and smile;
(Nay, Philis, but a god-song
   He follows this many a mile.)

Come back, come back, Agathocles!
   (He scents the asphodel;
Unearthly swift he runneth.)
   Agathocles, farewell!