C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Way to Arcady
By Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855–1896)
O
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what’s the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?
The spring is rustling in the tree—
The tree the wind is blowing through—
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird’s note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I’ll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.
And if you but keep pace with me
You tread the way to Arcady.
And how long yet may the journey be?
Across the clover and the snow—
Across the forest, across the flowers—
Through summer seconds and winter hours.
I’ve trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may be;
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.
I was wont to sing, once on a time—
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.
The folk all sing in Arcady.
Who hath nor youth nor melody?
Your hair is white, your face is wise—
That Love must kiss that Mortal’s eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance, there,
But beggared Love may go all bare;
No wisdom won with weariness,
But Love goes in with Folly’s dress;
No fame that wit could ever win,
But only Love, may lead Love in
To Arcady, to Arcady.
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men’s praise;
But Love, ah Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new—
But far away, and half forgot—
I only know her eyes were blue;
But Love—I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah Love! and Arcady.
My way’s for Love and Arcady.
The gray is likewise in your hair.
What love have you to lead you there,
To Arcady, to Arcady?
My true companion’s Memory.
With Love he fills the Spring-time air;
With Love he clothes the Winter tree.
Oh, past this poor horizon’s bound
My song goes straight to one who stands—
Her face all gladdening at the sound—
To lead me to the Spring-green lands,
To wander with enlacing hands.
The songs within my breast that stir
Are all of her, are all of her.
My maid is dead long years (quoth he),
She waits for me in Arcady.
To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, yon’s the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry.