Ballades I - To Theocritus, In Winter

AH! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar Of London, leave the bustling street, For still, by the Sicilian shore, The murmur of the Muse is sweet. Still, still, the suns of summer greet The mountain-grave of Helike, And shepherds still their songs repeat Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. What though they worship Pan no more That guarded once the shepherd’s seat, They chatter of their rustic lore, They watch the wind among the wheat: Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat, Where whispers pine to cypress tree; They count the waves that idly beat, Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. Theocritus! thou canst restore The pleasant years, and over-fleet; With thee we live as men of yore, We rest where running waters meet: And then we turn unwilling feet And seek the world—so must it be— We may not linger in the heat Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! ENVOY Master,—when rain, and snow, and sleet And northern winds are wild, to thee We come, we rest in thy retreat, Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!