Near Helikon

By such an all-embalming summer day

As sweetens now among the mountain pines

Down to the cornland yonder and the vines,

To where the sky and sea are mixed in gray,

How do all things together take their way

Harmonious to the harvest, bringing wines

And bread and light and whatsoe’er combines

In the large wreath to make it round and gay.

To me my troubled life doth now appear

Like scarce distinguishable summits hung

Around the blue horizon: places where

Not even a traveller purposeth to steer,—

Whereof a migrant bird in passing sung,

And the girl closed her window not to hear.