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Robert Nichols - The Philosopher`s Oration: A Faun`s Holiday
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Meanwhile, though nations in distress 
Cower at a comet`s loveliness 
Shaken across the midnight sky; 
Though the wind roars, and Victory, 
A virgin fierce, on vans of gold 
Stoops through the cloud`s white smother rolled 
Over the armies` shock and flow 
Across the broad green hills below, 
Yet hovers and will not circle down 
To cast t`ward one the leafy crown; 
Though men drive galleys` golden beaks 
To isles beyond the sunset peaks, 
And cities on the sea behold 
Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold, 
Whose turrets, risen in an hour, 
Dazzle between the sun and shower, 
Whose sole inhabitants are kings 
Six cubits high with gryphon`s wings 
And beard and mien more glorious 
Than Midas or Assaracus; 
Though priests in many a a hill-top fane 
Lift anguished hands -- and lift in vain -- 
Toward the sun`s shaft dancing through 
The bright roof`s square of wind-swept blue; 
Though `cross the stars nightly arise 
The silver fumes of sacrifice; 
Though a new Helen bring new scars 
Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars, 
Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped 
Like a streaked flame toward the dead: 
Though all these be, yet grows not old 
Delight of sunned and windy wold, 
Of soaking downs aglare, asteam, 
Of still tarns where the yellow gleam 
Of a far sunrise slowly breaks, 
Or sunset strews with golden flakes 
The deeps which soon the stars will throng. 

For earth yet keeps her undersong 
Of comfort and of ultimate peace, 
That whoso seeks shall never cease 
To hear at dawn or noon or night. 
Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright, 
Too thin, too bright, for those to hear 
Who listen with an eager ear, 
Or course about and seek to spy, 
Within an hour, eternity. 
First must the spirit cast aside 
This world`s and next his own poor pride 
And learn the universe to scan 
More as a flower, less as a man. 
Then shall he hear the lonely dead 
Sing and the stars sing overhead, 
And every spray upon the heath, 
And larks above and ants beneath; 
The stream shall take him in her arms; 
Blue skies shall rest him in their calms; 
The wind shall be a lovely friend, 
And every leaf and bough shall bend 
Over him with a lover`s grace. 
The hills shall bare a perfect face 
Full of a high solemnity; 
The heavenly clouds shall weep, and be 
Content as overhead they swim 
To be high brothers unto him. 

No more shall he feel pitched and hurled 
Uncomprehended into this world; 
For every place shall be his place, 
And he shall recognize its face. 
At dawn he shall upon his path; 
No sword shall touch him, nor the wrath 
Of the ranked crowd of clamorous men. 
At even he shall home again, 
And lay him down to sleep at ease, 
One with the Night and the Night`s peace. 
Ev`n Sorrow, to be escaped of none, 
But a more deep communion 
Shall be to him, and Death at last 
No more dreaded than the Past, 
Whose shadow in the brain of earth 
Informs him now and gave him birth.
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