Numa Pompilius
In cool woods he walks with the goddess
as fountains spring forth from her feet
to water the hills and their gardens
with clarity up-leaping and sweet;
beneath the black poplars in courting
they drank from the splendor of love,
not foolish or vicious or carnal
but fitting to heaven above.
The numina in blessing all nodded;
the omens were propitious in name;
the fulgural rites were down-noted
and augural offerings the same.
The Muses all crowned him with laurels
and through him the City they blessed,
but he, though of each Muse a lover,
the Silent One loved far the best,
and she in her turn graces showered,
for in silence all order is born,
whether music or poem or shaping
or the law even gods do not scorn.
Thus he poured forth a river of wisdom
as rust ate the spear and the sword,
and the trumpets of terror and weeping
were replaced by the reasonable word.
Oh, where in this wide world of mayhem
does Egeria walk in the wood?
And where is the dark tumult martial
replaced by the tacitmost good?
And where is the king who builds bridges,
the priest who gives union with God?
And who quiets the clamor of battle
where Numa Pompilius trod?
Hilltop
As though my thoughts were swimming in a pool,
afloat, a-dream, in still refreshment cool,
I lose all time; eternity is flowing down
like gentle waters covering foot and crown.
My body is a breeze, a glimpse of light,
an insubstantial thing, like white on white,
and as I think of worlds and greater still,
I feel the breezes play upon this verdant hill,
and breathe the fresh of spring and see its green,
and on eternity and solid stone relax and lean.
