Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Henry AugustinBeers987 Ecce in Deserto
T
Upon whose guess I go:
Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard;
And yet I know, I know,
The door of air swing wide
To one lost chamber of the wood
Where those shy mysteries hide,—
From which the wood-thrush sings,
Still luring in to darker shades,
In—in to colder springs.
But hark!—the pine-tops’ roar,
That sleep and in their dreams repeat
The music of the shore.
What song is that they sing?
Those airs that search the forest’s heart,
What rumor do they bring?
And, in the stillness, clear
The vireo’s tell-tale warning rings:
“’T is near—’t is near—’t is near!”
The ghostly music plays
When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince
Draws closer through the maze.
A wilder than ye know,
To lairs beyond the inmost haunt
Of thrush or vireo.
The ferns still lightly shake.
Ever I follow hard upon,
But never overtake.
To other worlds and new,
Where they who keep the secret here
Will keep the promise too.