Stars wheel in purple, yours is not so rare as Hesperus, nor yet so great a star as bright Aldeboran or Sirius, nor yet the stained and brilliant one of War; stars turn in purple, glorious to the sight; yours is not gracious as the Pleiads are nor as Orion's sapphires, luminous; yet disenchanted, cold, imperious face, when all the others blighted, reel and fall, your star, steel-set, keeps lone and frigid tryst to freighted ships, baffled in wind and blast.
O be swift— we have always known you wanted us. We fled inland with our flocks. we pastured them in hollows, cut off from the wind and the salt track of the marsh. We worshipped inland— we stepped past wood-flowers, we forgot your tang, we brushed wood-grass. We wandered from pine-hills through oak and scrub-oak tangles, we broke hyssop and bramble, we caught flower and new bramble-fruit in our hair: we laughed as each branch whipped back, we tore our feet in half-buried rocks and knotted roots and acorn-cups. We forgot—we worshipped, we parted green from green, we sought further thickets, we dipped our ankles through leaf-mould and earth, and wood and wood-bank enchanted us— and the feel of the clefts in the bark, and the slope between tree and tree— and a slender path strung field to field and wood to wood and hill to hill and the forest after it. We forgot—for a moment tree-resin, tree-bark, sweat of a torn branch were sweet to taste. We were enchanted with the fields, the tufts of coarse grass— in the shorter grass— we loved all this. But now, our boat climbs—hesitates—drops— climbs—hesitates—crawls back— climbs—hesitates— O, be swift— we have always known you wanted us.