Paul Hamilton Hayne (1830–1886)

YE pleasant myths of eld, why have ye fled?

The earth has fallen from her blissful prime

Of summer years; the dews of that sweet time

Are withered on its garlands sear and dead.

No longer in the blue fields overhead

We list the rustling of immortal wings,

Or hail at eve the kindly visitings

Of gentle Genii to fair fortunes wed:

The seas have lost their Nereids, the sad streams

Their gold-haired habitants, the mountains lone

Those happy Oreads; and the blithesome tone

Of Pan’s soft pipe melts only in our dreams:

Fitfully fall the old Faith’s broken gleams

On our dull hearts cold as sepulchral stone.