Posthumous Poems/Echo

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

ECHO

In the dusk of starlit hoursThro' the woodland's dewy mazeScattering music, scattering flowersDown the glimmering forest ways,O'er the smooth moss-paven level,Past the mountain's windy brow,Come the Nymphs in crowded revel,Calling, Echo, Echo! where art thou?

By the far and misty glimmerOf these pale Lethean lakes,Whose dusk waves in twilight shimmerWhen the faint Sun on them breaks,Where no sorrowing thoughts appal thee,Hast thou sought a place of sleepHeeding not how loud we call thee—Echo, Echo!—thro' the woodlands deep?

We have sought thee till the Hours,Slowly darkening to the west,Left thee turning funeral flowersIn some haunt of dreary rest,Where the cloud of dewy tressesOn thy wan and downcast browLike a weight of sorrow presses;Call aloud, Echo! Echo! where art thou?

In the soft green summer-meadowsWhere the silent streams are flowingIn the happy woodland shadowsWhere the softest winds are blowing,Where amid their heapèd flowersChildren call thee soft and low,In the hush of golden hoursSinging, Echo, Echo! where art thou?

When the wind-vext earth returnethTo the light of stormless days,And the wide noon-splendour burnethOn the lustrous ocean-ways,Still thou sittest weeping lowlyIn the dim heart of the brakes,In the silence wide and holy—Echo, Echo!—which the deep wood makes.

Echo, Echo! we are wearyAnd the forest-path is long,And the brightest glades are drearyIf unwaken'd by thy song.Hark! her voice afar is singing—O our sister, where art thou?All the joyous words are ringing;Be with us, Echo! Echo! hear us now.

 Oxford.