And I Too in Arcadia

They have wander’d in their gleeWith the butterfly and bee;They have climb’d o’er heathery swells,They have wound through forest dells;Mountain-moss hath felt their tread,Woodland streams their way have led;Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,Unto them have yielded upFragrant bell and starry cup:Chaplets are on every brow--What hath staid the wanderers now?Lo! a gray and rustic tomb,Bower’d amidst the rich wood-gloom;Whence these words their stricken spirits melt,--“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

There is many a summer soundThat pale sepulchre around;Through the shade young birds are glancing,Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;Glimpses of blue festal skiesPouring in when soft winds rise;Violets o’er the turf belowShedding out their warmest glow;Yet a spirit not its ownO’er the greenwood now is thrown!Something of an under-noteThrough its music seems to float,Something of a stillness grayCreeps across the laughing day:Something dimly from those old words felt,--“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”

Was some gentle kindred maidIn that grave with dirges laid?Some fair creature, with the toneOf whose voice a joy is gone,Leaving melody and mirthPoorer on this alter’d earth?Is it thus? that so they stand,Dropping flowers from every hand--Flowers, and lyres, and gather’d storeOf red wild-fruit prized no more?--No! from that bright band of mornNot one link hath yet been torn:’Tis the shadow of the tombFalling o’er the summer-bloom--O’er the flush of love and lifePassing with a sudden strife;’Tis the low prophetic breathMurmuring from that house of death,Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,--“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”