The Scarecrow

Without a murmur in the wheat,

Till fields are shorn and harvest’s won,
He suffers cold, he suffers heat,

From chilly stars and scorching sun.

Though men forget, he dreameth yet
How in the golden past he stood,
’Mid flowers and wine, a shape divine

Of marble or of carven wood ;

How, in the loveliness and peace
Of that blithe age and radiant clime,
He was a garden-god of Greece.
Oh, vanished world! Oh, fleeting time !

Gaunt simulacrum — ghost forlorn —
Grey exile from a splendid past —

Last god (in rags) of a creed outworn —
If pity ’ll help thee, mine thou hast!

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