The Storm.

I can hear the great boughs swing Through the stormy night, Each a dryad-haunted thing With its dark delight, As within an old-world air When the Gods were everywhere. All the wood seems to be up At some eerie play, Wild as Bacchanals whose sup Had all through the day Been a deep one, as they roar With the waves upon the shore. 'Tis in sooth as Pan, too, mad For fair Syrinx fled, Had from Hades come, and had Brought with him the dead Who of old had worshipped him To a midnight revel grim. Or is it that Syrinx too, From the reed restored, Romps it as the satyrs do With her now-loved lord? And is this the night of nights, And are these their marriage rites? Who shall say? The great boughs swing, As Time in a whirl Did to the dark forest bring The goat-god and his girl, With the earth-enamoured crew For a mystic hour or two. Till amid the tumult I Fall asleep, like one Who had put the ages by In a dream begun Far back in another sphere, Ere my 'wildered soul came here! Ah! the dream that may indeed Outlive all I know, When like one whom Fate has freed I through Hades go, And see the great vision cast On the future by the past.