THE GODS ARE NOT GONE, BUT MAN IS BLIND

Over the hills the gods come walking, Where the black pines draw their swords, And the spell-bound leaves cease talking, For the High-Priest sun comes stalking And ’tis no time for words. And oh! the gifts the gods are bringing— Stretches of happy heath, Jewels with souls, and flowers singing; Smiling stars, and new hope springing With the wingèd hope called Death! Over the hills the pipes are playing, And the gods come strong and fair. Alas! they know not of the straying, The faithlessness and bitter saying: “We know no gods, nor care....” Over the hills—the day-sky kindles On a blackened world of clods; Dead and dry are the flaxless spindles, The cruse is drained,—the fire dwindles ... No worshipers for the gods!