  The gods are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity. For me still laughs among her rocks The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks Drop perfume on the wild-flower flocks. The Satyr hoof still prints the loam; And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, The Oread haunts her mountain home. To him, whose mind is fain to dwell With loveliness no time can quell, All things are real, imperishable. To him—whatever facts may say— Who sees the soul beneath the clay, Is proof of a diviner day. The very stars and flowers preach A gospel old as God, and teach Philosophy a child may reach; That can not die, that shall not cease, That lives through idealities Of beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece; That lift the soul above the clod, And, working out some period Of art, are part and proof of God. |
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