The woods of Arcady are dead，

    And over is their antique joy；

    Of old the world on dreaming fed；

    Grey Truth is now her painted toy；

    Yet still she turns her restless head：

    But O， sick children of the world，

    Of all the many changing things

    In dreary¹ dancing past us whirled，

    To the cracked tune² that Chronos sings，

    Words alone are certain good.

    Where are now the warring kings，

    Word be-mockers？—By the Rood

    Where are now the warring kings？

    An idle word is now their glory，

    By the stammering³ schoolboy said，

    Reading some entangled⁴ story：

    The kings of the old time are dead；

    The wandering earth herself may be

    Only a sudden flaming word，

    In clanging space a moment heard，

    Troubling the endless reverie.

    Then nowise worship dusty deeds，

    Nor seek， for this is also sooth，

    To hunger fiercely after truth，

    Lest all thy toiling⁵ only breeds

    New dreams， new dreams； there is no truth

    Saving in thine own heart. Seek， then，

    No learning from the starry⁶ men，

    Who follow with the optic glass

    The whirling ways of stars that pass—

    Seek， then， for this is also sooth，

    No word of theirs—the cold star-bane

    Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain，

    And dead is all their human truth.

    Go gather by the humming sea

    Some twisted， echo-harbouring shell，

    And to its lips thy story tell，

    And they thy comforters will be，

    Rewarding in melodious⁷ guile⁸

    Thy fretful words a little while，

    Till they shall singing fade in ruth

    And die a pearly brotherhood⁹；

    For words alone are certain good：

    Sing， then， for this is also sooth.

    I must be gone： there is a grave

    Where daffodil and lily wave，

    And I would please the hapless faun，

    Buried under the sleepy ground，

    With mirthful songs before the dawn.

    His shouting days with mirth were crowned；

    And still I dream he treads the lawn，

    Walking ghostly in the dew，

    Pierced by my glad singing through，

    My songs of old earth‘s dreamy youth：

    But ah！ she dreams not now； dream thou！

    For fair are poppies on the brow：

    Dream， dream， for this is also sooth.

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