Ecce in Deserto

The wilderness a secret keeps   Upon whose guess I go: Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard;   And yet I know, I know, Some day the viewless latch will lift,   The door of air swing wide To one lost chamber of the wood   Where those shy mysteries hide,— One yet unfound, receding depth,   From which the wood-thrush sings, Still luring in to darker shades,   In—in to colder springs. There is no wind abroad to-day.   But hark!—the pine-tops’ roar, That sleep and in their dreams repeat   The music of the shore. What wisdom in their needles stirs?   What song is that they sing? Those airs that search the forest’s heart,   What rumor do they bring? A hushed excitement fills the gloom,   And, in the stillness, clear The vireo’s tell-tale warning rings:   “’T is near—’t is near—’t is near!” As, in the fairy-tale, more loud   The ghostly music plays When, toward the enchanted bower, the prince   Draws closer through the maze. Nay—nay. I track a fleeter game,   A wilder than ye know, To lairs beyond the inmost haunt   Of thrush or vireo. This way it passed: the scent lies fresh;   The ferns still lightly shake. Ever I follow hard upon,   But never overtake. To other woods the trail leads on,   To other worlds and new, Where they who keep the secret here   Will keep the promise too.