An early autumn day is swooning slowly,
The blue is veiled by violet-tinted fleece,
And from the earth an incense rises slowly,
And all the sounds of Nature's singing cease.
Upon a cone-like hill- begirt by woods
Of mystic furs that rise in stately splendour,
And in the breezes sway their sombre hoods-
A chapel rests; its form both grand and tender
Stands out against the gold above the woods.
For just beyond the hill the cloudy screen
Is rent, and sunbeams in seraphic glory
Inspire with radiance yond the lying scene,
And cast a halo round the gray and hoary
Fane, and fringe the clouds with golden sheen.
And around the chapel shining shapes keep guard,
The forms of priests and priestesses sedately
Make circle, gliding on the downy sward,
And render ritual by the portals stately
Before they cross the sacred chapel yard.
And from this fane a great volcano breaks,
And to the heavens rise resplendent ranges
Of colour-gems, which fall in tiny flakes
On all surrounding hamlets, vills and granges,
Illuming miles of hills and vales and lakes.
And music opens its grand and mighty throat,
And hearts are borne on melody's mighty billows
Upon an open sea of sound afloat,
With sounds as balmy bed and sounds as pillows,
And sounds alone as chariot and as boat.
Then all the fountains of my soul arise,
I feel myself with infinite senses gifted,
I am that fane, those hills, those veils, those skies,
I am those hearts on music's waves uplifted,
I am the mystic essence of all ecstasies.
Cyril Scott
