John Myers O’Hara

WHAT shape so furtive steals along the dim

Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June;

This day of rest, when all the roses swoon

In Attic vales where dryads wait for him?

What sylvan this, and what the stranger whim

That lured him here this golden afternoon;

Ways where the dusk has fallen oversoon

In the deep canyon, torrentless and grim?

Great Pan is far, O mad estray, and these

Bare walls that leap to heaven and hide the skies

Are fanes men rear to other deities;

Far to the East the haunted woodland lies,

And cloudless still, from cyclad-dotted seas,

Hymettus and the hills of Hellas rise.