_What hidden soul residing
Within these forms, O sea!
Should, every hour changing,
To Time yet changeless be?
What masks hast thou not worn,
What parts not played,
Thou Prince of all the Revels
In Life's Masquerade?
Light-hearted as a jester,
The motley fits thy mood,
As the gold and the purple,
Thy statelier habitude._
At dawn--
A trumpeter preluding a day's pageant.
At noon--
A dancer weaving new measures around the
furrows of ships with white sails.
Later--
A courier with sealed tidings hastening towards the shore.
At sunset--
A dyer steeping colors on a bay.
Again--
A sculptor teasing faces out of the moonlit foam on a reef.
Or carving bric-a-brac upon a beach,
Or fashioning, with age-toiled hands, a grotto
out of limestone.
The wind blows--
And a master puts a flute to his lips.
It blows again--
And his fingers take hold of organ stops ....