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