“TELL me, Singer, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Of the world's roads I am weary —
You, with song so brave and cheery,
Happy troubadour must be
On the way to Arcady?”
Pausing on a muted note,
Song forsook the Singer's throat,
“Friend,” sighed he, “you come too late,
Once I could the way relate,
Once — but long ago; Ah me,
Far away is Arcady!”
“Tell me, Poet, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Haunting is your verse and airy
With the grace and gleam of faery —
Dweller you must surely be
In the land of Arcady?”
Slow the Poet raised his eyes,
Sad were they as winter skies,
“Once, I sojourned there,” he said;
Then, no more — but with bent head
Whispered low, “Ask not of me
That lost road to Arcady!”
Tell me, Lover, of the way
Winding down to Arcady?
Some sweet bourne your haste confesses —
Know you paths no other guesses?
Does your gaze, so far away,
See the road to Arcady?
In the Lover's eyes there gleamed
Radiance of all things dreamed —
“Nay, detain me not,” he cried
“I am hasting to my bride;
What have roads to do with me,
Love's at home in Arcady!”