Classic Poem

Suddenly, as I gaze at the sombre land in the picture,
The bridge, the enchanted stream, the long, long watery plain,
And the dark wood, and the small far houses, and the blue hills
Flashing like dolphins under a light like rain;

Look! The picture has opened! the sounds come in,
Broad, rich streaming, in the late light of the sun,
The whole wide land is a flood of mysterious sound! . . .
O this is the land where you have gone,

Your voice floats up to me from that bridge, I hear
The tiny words out of dusk like a gnat-song come—
‘Stay! stay where you are! You will be happier there!
I will at last, perhaps, come home!’

O voice, crying the ineffable, face invisible,
Beauty intangibly gone like a tracery out of the sky!
Come back! . . . But the window closes. Bridge, stream, houses, hills,
Are silent. Small is the picture. None stirs in the world save I.