II.

It was men’s wont of old, Ere spoken was the Vale, deep, three-fold, From the full heart above the unanswering lip Of the bronze urn, in water clear to dip A branch, and sprinkle all with pure light spray: Or broken bough of bay Or olive called the happy, since it yields Fruit in unnumbered fields: For thus they deemed the influence done away Of barren Death, that else a spell might lay On the warm living, subtly to annul Their powers, and strike their fortunes cold and dull. And we, who seek the soul in each old sign, Pleased if we may divine Likeness in difference, Proteus in disguise, And gazing backward with anointed eyes Across deep ages and the gulfs of race Know yet a brother’s face,— We hail, in this the antique olive gray, A meaning of to-day.