Classic Poem

You who were born for laughter and the bright
Gold sun of morning and white fire at night,
Whose voice is tuned to that delicious speech
The dryads use when calling each to each
Across keen mornings when the Spring is new
And high, white clouds drift bird-like in the blue:—

You who were born for music and for mirth—
A mad, glad soul sent jubilant to earth—
What strange fate set you a bewildered thing,
Prisoned in this dim House of Suffering,
Placed in the midst of those grown sadly wise,
With that mute, frightened wonder in your eyes?

How still you sit what time there ring without
Echoes of distant merriment and shout!
How still you sit what time the wind elate
Calls at your casement for his glad-heart mate,
And the red moon comes flaming up the sky,
Like a great torch to set strange revels by!

O child, we mortals knowing whence 'tis sent,
Bring certain wisdom to sore punishment;
We ease the anguish as we weigh the loss.
But you, O sweet my Pagan, to this cross,
Wondering, wildered, fettered foot and hand,
Why are you bound who may not understand?