John Myers O’Hara

THE LITTLE lake, sequestered from the wind,

Is white with swans that on its bosom sleep;

A sunken mirror where the skies may keep

The azure of their summer dream enshrined;

Unsullied by the rim of roofs behind

Secluding oaks that cluster on the steep,

Or ripple from the shore whose frondage deep

Is cool with shadow and with fragrance kind.

The tyrant city towers above the trees,

Nor heeds the Attic idyl in its heart;

The grind of wheels and noise of feet depart,

The woods are filled with fabled deities;

A dream recalls them to their sylvan sway,

And Mammon yields Arcadia a day.