In old evenings, in the clearings, in old forests

Long, ago, is where druids could be found,

Tall under the low dull solemn oaks, but shorter

Than their shadows falling on the ground.

Though exempt from war, if they went down in battle

They died singly, refusing aid.

They were versed in stone-old mysteries, and music

Was always what they made.

In time of peace they were good with the long oar.

And soft with women, and silent in any grief.

They know also the wrist's use of the beater's maul

On the plaint golden leaf.

They carried away into pre-historic shadows

Their mysteries, their music, and their gold.

It seems a simple, an almost god-like way of living,

As of dying. I am growing old.