In this dim region, where old phantoms flee
Before the touch, where neither sight nor news
Of our world reach us; here at best we see
Naught but the poet saluting his grave Muse.
‘Æ’
A shepherd, having left the hills to roam,
Sees from afar the cities of great kings,
And so returns enraptured to his home:--
A man apart--who stammers golden things.