DELPHI

Matrixed ’mid purple mountain steeps, An ancient Grecian city sleeps. Where rock-hewn fountains spill Down scarlet-poppied hill; Long time ago its temples fair Rose, Doric-columned, on the air, And voices told of riddles strange That echoed down the mountain range; And men and cities brought their all To Delphi and the priestess’ thrall. While in the mountain-pass a pipe Played on and on and on— A pipe played on. Now up the aisles of olive-trees Come wistful souls from over-seas, From the Itean shore, Past rose-hung cottage door, And in the sacred fount they dip, Or tell the lore with alien lip; Or, dreaming, scan far snow-crowned heights, Lit, as of old, with pagan lights. While through the thyme, ’mid rock and pool, The sheep-bells tinkle, water cool,— And in the mountain pass, a pipe Plays on and on and on— A pipe plays on. While glowworms blur the dewy gorse, And stars float from their tidal source, And Grecian peasants steal By creaking wagon-wheel, We ponder on this Life and Death Within the taking of our breath; So old, these ruined fanes that lie, Beneath the temple of the sky! So old these sacred stones that gleam With the strange shining Delphic dream. While in the mountain-pass the pipe Plays on and on and on— A pipe plays on. So old, this silence trembles, brought To solemn tension with our thought— Deep as the mystic strain Born in Apollo’s fane: “Dear God, ’tis well no Pythoness For us may prophesy or bless! Well, that no riddle-verse controls The will that slumbers in our souls! Well, that we choose, calm, clear-eyed, free To live and learn our truth from Thee!”— Still in the mountain-pass the pipe Plays on and on and on— The pipe plays on.