Sibyl

THIS is the glamour of the world antique:  
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air,  
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.  
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek  
The amber haunts of bees; and on the peak  
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,  
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.  
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak!  
Her eyes are full of dreams; and in her ears  
There is the rustle of immortal wings;  
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears  
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.  
Entreat her not: she sees thee not, nor hears  
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs.