The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics

IN NOVEMBER

No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine,No windy white but low and sodden gray,That holds the melancholy skies and killsThe wild song and the wild bird; yet, ai me!Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods,Brown, sighing forests dying that I love!Thy long thick leaves deep, deep about my feet,Slow, weary feet that halt or falter on;Thy long, sweet, reddened leaves that burn and dieWith silent fever of the sickened wold.I love to hear in all thy windy coigns,Rain-wet and choked with bleached and rotting weeds,The baby-babble of the many leaves,That, fallen on barren ways, like fallen hopesOnce held so high on all the Summer's heartOf strong majestic trees, now come to such,Would fainly gossip in hushed undertones, —Sad weak yet sweet as natures that have knownTrue tears and hot in bleak remorseless days, —Of all their whilom glory vanished so.

A CHARACTER

He lived beyond us and we stoodAs pygmies to his every mood,Mere pupils at his beck and nod,That spoke the influence of a god.And oft we wondered, when his thoughtMade our humanity seem naught,If he, like Uther's mystic son,Were not a birth for Avalon.When wand'ring 'neath the sighing trees,His soul waxed genial with the breeze,That, voiceful, from the piney gladesCompanioned seemed of Oreads;A Dryad life lived in each oak,And with its many leaf-tongues spoke,Glorying the deity whose powerGave it its life in sun and shower.By every violet-hallowed brook,Where every bramble-matted nookRippled and laughed with water-sounds,He walked as one on sainted grounds,Fearing intrusion on the spellThat kept some fountain-spirit's well,Or woodland genius sitting whereBrown racy berries kissed his hair.And when the wind far o'er the hillHad fall'n and left the wildwood stillAs moonlight jets on quiet moss, —Beneath the pied boughs arched acrossLong limpid vistas, brimmed with ripeGreen-swimming sunbeams, heard the pipeOf some hid follower of PanAnd worshiper, half brute half man;Who, hairy-haunched, a savage rhymePuffed in his reed to rudest time;With swollen jowl and rolling eyeDanced boisterous where the silver skySmiled in the forest's broken roof;The strident branch beneath his hoofSnapped on the sod which, interfusedBetween black roots, was crushed and bruised.And often when he wandered throughOld forests at the fall of dew, —A lone Endymion who soughtA higher beauty yet uncaught, —Some night, we thought, most surely heWere favored of her deity,And in the holy solitudeHer sudden presence, long pursued,Unto his eyes would be confessed;The awful moonlight of her breastCome high with majesty and holdHis heart's blood till his heart were cold,Unpulsed, unsinewed, all undone,And snatch his soul to Avalon.

A MOOD

Bowed hearts that hold the saddest memoriesAre the most beautiful; and such make sweetLight happy moods of alien natures whichTheir sadness contacts, and so sanctifies.And such to me is an old, gabled house,Deserted and neglected and unknownWithin the dreamy hollow of its hills,Dark, cedared hills and fruitless orchards sear;With but its host of shrouded memoriesHaunting its low and desolate rooms and halls,Its roomy hearths and cob-webbed crevices.Here in dim rainy noons I love to sit,And hear the running rain along the roof,The creak and crack of noises that are bornOf unseen and mysterious agencies;The dripping footfalls of the wind adownLone winding stairways massy-banistered;A clapping door and then a sudden hushThat brings a pleasant terror stiffening throughThe tingling veins and staring from the eyes.Then comes the running rain along the roof'sRain-rotten gables and on rain-stained wallsInvokes vague images and memoriesOf all its sometime lords and mistresses,Until the stale material will assumeAll that's clairvoyant, and the fine-strung earIn quaint far rooms or dusty corridorsHear wrinkled ladies all beruffled trailLong haughty silks "miraculously stiff."

A THOUGHT

And I have thought of youth which strainsNearer its God to rise, —What were ambition and its painsWere life a cowardice!The grander souls that rose aboveThought's noblest heights to tread,Found their endeavor in their love,And truth behind the dead.A secret glory in the tomb,A night that dawns in light,An intense presence veiled with gloom,And not an endless night…Nepenthe of this struggling world,Thou who dost stay mad CareWhen her fury's scourge above is curledAnd we see her writhing hair!

SONG

IFar over the summer sea,Ere the white-eyed stars wax pale,From the groves where a nightingaleWails a mystical melody,I turn my ghostly sailAway, away,To follow a face I seeFar over the summer sea.IIFar over the summer sea,Ere the cliff which highest soarsFrom the foam re-echoing shoresReddens all rosily,Where the witch-white water roars,Far on, far on,Thro' the night I follow theeFar over the summer sea.IIIFar over the summer sea,When the great gold moon low liesIn the purple-deepened skiesI drift on tearfullyTill a spirit form doth riseLow down, low down,'Twixt the orbèd moon and meFar over the summer sea.IVFar over the summer seaWith thy foam-cold limbs wound sweet'Round hair and throat and feetTo slay me utterly;At each mad, hot heart beatA kiss, a kiss,To drain the soul with thee,Deep, deep in the summer sea.

FACE TO FACE

Dead! and all the haughty fateFair on throat and face of wax,White, calm hands crossed still and lax,Cold, impassionate!Dead! and no word whispered lowAt the dull ear now could wakeOne responsive chord or makeOne wan temple glow.Dead! and no hot tear would stirAll that woman sweet and fair,Woman soul from feet to hairWhich was once of her.God! and thus to die! and I —I must live though life be butOne long, hard, monotonous rut,There to plod and – die!Creeds are well in such a case;But no sermon could have wroughtMore of faith than you have taughtWith your pale, dead face.And I see it as you see —One mistake, so very small!Yet so great it mangled all,Left you this and me!Oft I pondered saying, "SureShe could never live such life!"And the truth stabbed like a knifeWhen I found you pure.Pure, so pure! and me bemoiled,Loathly as loathed vermin, justAs weak souls are left of lust —Loveless, low, and soiled.Nay! I loved you then and love! —Grand, great eyes, I see them yet,Set like luminous gems of jetIn wax lids above.Lips – O poor, dumb, chideless lips!Once as red as life could make,Moist as wan wild roses wakeWhen the wild dew drips.Hair – imperial, full, and warmAs a Grace's, where one stonePrecious lay ensnared and shoneLike a star in storm.Eyes – at parting big with pain;God! I see them and the tearIn them – big as eyes of deerLed by lights and slain!Life so true! I falsely cursed —Lips that, curled with scorn and pride,Hurt me though I said they lied,While the true heart burst.Rest! my heart has suffered too:And this life had woe enoughFor the little dole of loveGiven to me and you.Can you hear me? can you knowWhat I am and how it came,You, beyond me like a flame,You, before me like the snow!Dead! and all my heart a cupHollowed for sad, bitter tears,Bitter in the bitter yearsSlowly brimming up.Sleep! 'tis well! but might have beenBetter! – yes, God knows it might!Better for me in His sightAnd my soul more clean.Sleep in very peace! but IWith Earth's other fools will stay,Live 'mid laughter, day by dayMocking laugh and – die.You will know me now, I know,But in life had never knownHow, indeed, I was alone —But, 'tis better so.And I know you what you were,Faithful and – it were no use,Only to yourself abuse, —I shall tell you there.There beyond the lightning andThe long clouds and utter skies,Moons and suns and stars that rise,Where we'll understand.

THE CHANGELING

IThere were Faëries two or three,And a high moon white as wool,Or a bloom in Faëry,Where the star-thick blossoms beStar-like beautiful.IIThere were Faëries two or three,And a wind as fragrant asSpicy wafts from ArcadyRocked the sleeping honey beeIn the clover grass.IIIThere were Faëries two or three,Wee white caps and red wee shoon,Buckles at each dainty knee,"We are come to comfort thee,With the silver moon."IVThere were Faëries two or three,Buttercups brimmed up with dew,Winning faces sweet to see,Then mine eyes closed heavily:"Faëries, what would you?"VThere were Faëries two or three,And my babe was dreaming deep,White as whitest ivory,In its crib of ebonyRocked and crooned on sleep.VIThere were Faëries two or threeStanding in the mocking moon,And mine eyes closed drowsily,Drowsily and suddenlyThere my babe was gone.VIINow no Faëries two or threeLoitered in the moon alone;Jesu, Marie, comfort me!What is this instead I see —Ugly skin and bone.VIIIThere were Faëries two or threeStood with buckles on red shoon,But with evil sorceryMy sweet babe to FaëryThey did steal right soon.

ST. JOHN'S EVE

IDizzily roundOn the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlightTo a sweet, unholy, ravishing soundOf wizard voices from underground,Their mazy dance the Elle-maids woundOn St. John's Eve.IIBeautiful white,Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed;And frail, sweet faces bloomed out on the nightFrom floating tresses of glow-worm light,That puffed like foam to the left and the rightOn St. John's Eve.IIIWarily thereThey flashed like a rill which the moonbeams fill,But I saw what a mockery all of them wereWith their hollow bodies, when the moonlit airRayed out through their eyes with a sudden glareOn St. John's Eve.IVSolemnly sweet,By the river's banks in the rushes' ranks,The Necks their sorrowful songs repeat:A music of winds over dipping wheat,Of moss-dulled cascades seemed to meetOn St. John's Eve.VDrowsily swamThe fire-flies fleet in eddies of heat;Through the willows a glimmer of gold harps came,And I saw their hair like a misty flameBunched over white brows, too white to name,On St. John's Eve.VIBeggarly torn,A wizen chap in a red-peaked cap,All gray with the chaff and dust of the corn,And strong with the pungent scent of the barn,The Nis scowled under the flowering thornOn St. John's Eve.VIIMerrily callThe singing crickets in the twinkling thickets,And the Troll hill rose on pillars tall,Crimson pillars that ranked a hallWhere the beak-nosed Trolls were holding a ballOn St. John's Eve.VIIIReveling flewFrom beakers of gold the wassail old;And she reached me a goblet brimmed bright with dew —But her wily witcheries well I knew,And the philtre over my shoulder threwOn St. John's Eve.

LALAGE

What were sweet life without herWho maketh all things sweetWith smiles that dream about her,With dreams that come and fleet!Soft moods that end in languor;Soft words that end in sighs;Curved frownings as of anger;Cold silence of her eyes.Sweet eyes born but for slaying,Deep violet-dark and lostIn dreams of whilom MayingIn climes unstung of frost.Wild eyes shot through with fireGod's light in godless years,Brimmed wine-dark with desire,A birth for dreams and tears.Dear tears as sweet as laughter,Low laughter sweet as loveUnwound in ripples afterSad tears we knew not of.What if the day be lawless,What if the heart be dead,Such tears would make it flawless,Such laughter make it red.Lips that were curled for kisses,For loves and hates and scorns,Brows under gold of tresses,Brows beauteous as the Morn's.Imperial locks and tangledDown to the graceful hips;Hair where one might be strangledCarousing on thy lips.Rose-lovely lips that hoverAbout the honeyed words,That slip wild bees from cloverWhose sweets their sweet affords.Though days be robbed of sunlight,White teeth make light thereof;Though nights unknown of onelight,Thine eyes were stars enough.Ah, lily-lovely features,Round temples, throat, and chin,Sweet gods of godless natures,Sweet love of loveless men!Still moods and slumberous fanned onTo dreams that rock to sleep,Unmerciful abandon,That haunts or makes one weep.She walks as if with sorrowsAnd all unknown of joy;Eyes fixed on dim to-morrowsThat all sad feet decoy.Yet she, a peer of pleasures,Tears from Time's taloned handThe hour-glass he treasures,And wastes its sullen sand.Makes of all hours a beakerBrimmed full of lordly wine,Cold gold of Life's mad liquor,And quaffs to me and mine.The love on lips grows fairer,Keen lights in eyes make wars,And throat and breast grow rarerThan the white-throated stars.Fleet smiles come fleet and fasterAnd web the willing soul;Warm breasts of alabasterHave snared it as a whole.What then were hell or heaven,The fear of heaven or hell!Lost in the life thus givenWe well might bid farewell.To leap against thy bosoms!Live at thy ardent throat!Kiss clinging to its blossoms,Die kissing and not know't!Wound in tumultuous tressesPulse like a naked hair,Held in long hands for kisses,And killed and never care.Clasped limb and marble member,Long raven hair with gold,To dream, forget, remember,Grow slowly still and cold.Feel earth and hell foreverRemote from thee and me,Nor strong enough to severThrough all eternity.Feel godlike power for evilHigh throned within the heart,Should God and hell's arch devilCast dice our souls to part:Part eyes hot as a jewel,Part covering deeps of curl,Sweet lips as sweet as cruel,And limbs of living pearl.What if in the hereafterOur love must weep farewell'Mid the hoarse, strident laughterOf devils deep in hell;We'll know that all infernal,All cactus-growth of time,Slays not that hour eternalThat sinned with love to crime.Love, we could live all tearless,Remember and have breath,Of hell and heaven fearlessIn love more strong than death.When hope shall be forgottenAnd death be one with both,Flesh, soul, and spirit rottenAnd wrapped with clay in sloth.Take comfort, love, rememberLove chastened with his rod,And member torn from memberWould leave him still a god.Though soul from soul be riven,God knows we shall regret!In hell or highest heavenWe never can forget!

MIRIAM

White clouds and buds and birds and bees,Low wind-notes piped from southern seas,Brought thee a rose-white offering,A flower-like baby with the Spring.She, as her April, gave to theeA soul of winsome vagary;Large, heavenly eyes, and tender, whenceShone the sweet mind's soft influence;Where all the winning woman, thatWelled up in tears, high sparkling sat.She, with the dower of her May,Gave thee a nature that could swayWild men with kindness, and a prideWhich all their littleness denied.Limbs wrought of lilies and a faceBright as a rose flower's, and a grace,God-taught, that clings like happinessIn each chaste billow of thy dress.She, as her heavy June, brought downNight deeps of hair thy brow to crown;A voice so mild and musicalIt is as water-notes that fallO'er bars of pearl, and in thy heartStamped like a jewel, that should startFrom thy pure face in smiles, and breakLike radiance when it laughed or spake,Affection that is born of truthAnd goodness which make very youth.

THE WIND

The ways of the wind are eerieAnd I love them all,The blithe, the mad, and the dreary,Spring, Winter, and Fall.When it tells to the waiting crocusIts beak to show,And hangs on the wayside locustBloom-bunches of snow.When it comes like a balmy blessingFrom the musky wood,The half-grown roses caressingTill their cheeks show blood.When it roars in the Autumn season,And whines with rainOr sleet like a mind without reason,Or a soul in pain.When the wood-ways once so spicyWith bud and bloomAre desolate, sear, and icyAs the icy tomb.When the wild owl crouched and frowsyIn the rotten treeWails dolorous, cold, and drowsy,His shuddering melody.Then I love to sit in DecemberWhere the big hearth sings,And dreaming forget and rememberA host of things.And the wind – I hear how it stranglesAnd gasps and sighsOn the roof's sharp, shivering anglesThat front the skies.How it groans and romps and tumblesIn attics o'erhead,In the great-throated chimney rumbles,Then all at once falls dead;Till it comes like footsteps slippingOf a child on the stair,Or a quaint old gentleman trippingWith heavily powdered hair.And my soul grows anxious heartedFor those once dear —The long-lost loves departedIn the wind draw near.And I seem to see their faces,Not one estranged,In their old accustomed places'Round the wide hearth ranged.And the wind that waits and poisesWhere the shadows swayMakes their visionary voicesSeem calling me far away.And I wake in tears to listenAgain to the sobbing wind,Far out on the lands that glisten,Like the voice of one who sinned.

MUSIC

[A Nocturne.]The soul of love is harmony; as suchAll melodies, that with wide pinions beatElastic bars, which mew it in the flesh,Till 'twould away to kiss their throats and cling,Are kindred to the soul, and while they sway,Lords of its action molding all at will.Ah! neither was I I, nor knew the clay,For all my soul lay on full waves of songReverberating 'twixt the earth and moon.O soft complaints, that haunted all the heartWith dreams of love long cherished, love dreams foundOn sunset mountains gorgeous toward the West:Kisses – soft kisses bartered 'mid pale budsOf bursting Springs; and vows of fondest faithKept evermore; and eyes whose witcheryMight lure old saints down to the lowest hellFor one swift glance, – sweet, melancholy eyesYet full of hope and dimming o'er with tears,Stooping and gloating in a silver mistAt Care's thin brow, and growing at his eyes.Voices of expectation rolling onTo diapason of a mighty choir,'Mid ever-swooning throbbings beating low,Wove in hoarse fabric thunders – and O soul!Wafted to caverns lost by hideous seas,One with the tumult 'neath o'ercircling tiersWhite with strange diamond spars and feathery gems.O holy music, wailing down long aislesTo lose thyself 'neath arched welkins dashedWith moons of crystal; – dying, dying downTo passionate sobs, and then a silence vast,Vast as thy caves, or as the human soul,Oppressing all this being bulked in fleshUntil it strained to burst its bounds and soar.Harp-tones! that shaped before the poisèd mindThe home of Sleep far on a moonlit isle.White Sleep, who from heaped myriad poppies weighedWith baby slumbers, and from violet beds,Culled whiter dreams to fold against her heartIn dewy clusters sparkling wet with tears;And on her shadowy pinions soaring highWinged 'neath the vault into oblivion,With all the echoes panting at pale feetTo kiss the dreams, and o'er deep, wine-dark waves,Far, far away, lost – and a sound of starsStreaming from burning sockets into nightAbout my soul, about my soul like fire.Oh, then what agony and bitter woe,Regret and noise of desolation vastAs when all that one loves is torn awayForever with "farewell forevermore!"Oh, strife and panic and the rush of winds,Moist ashen brows with raven tresses tornThat plunged against the bursting bolts of God,That ploughed the tempest curst with deepest night;Ruin and heartache, moans and demon eyes,Fierce, bestial eyes that cursed at very God;Then blinding tears that wept for such and prayed,Tears blistering all the soul in haunting eyes,Eyes such as Death would fear to ponder on!Then dolorous bell-beats, battle as for light,Folds of oblivion, gaspings, silence, death.

TO —

"Lydia, dic, per omnes

Te deos oro!"

IWhat are the subtletiesWhich woo me in her eyesTo oaths she deems but lies,I can not tell, I can not tell,Nor will she.They are beyond my thought.For when I gaze I'm nought,My senses all unwrought,It is not well, it is not well,Now Lily!IIWhat is the magic sweetWhich makes hot pulses beat,A wayward tongue repeatA name for weeks, a name for weeksWill, nill he?Ai me! the pleasant painFalls sweetly on the brainLike some slow sunny rain,Whene'er she speaks, whene'er she speaksThis Lily.IIIWhat is the witchery rareWhich snares me in her hairSo deeply that I dare,I dare not move, I dare not move, —Lie stilly?In looks and winning waysThe bloom of love she laysLike fire on all my days,And makes me love, and makes me loveThis Lily.

YULE

Behold! it was night; and the wind and the rushing of snow on the wind,And the boom of the sea and the moaning of desolate pines that were thinned.And the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail were filled,With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain,And sware out round oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing sware laughing again.Unharnessed from each shaggy throat that was hot with mad lust and with drink,The burly wild skins and barbaric tossed rent from their broad golden link.For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the "waes-heils" were shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.And huge on the hearth, that writhed hissing and bellied a bullion of gold,The yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.And its warmth was a glory that glared and smote red through the width of the hall,To burnish wild-boar skins and swords and great war-axes hung on the wall.Till the maidens, who hurried big goblets that bubbled excessive with barm,Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls when the shining steel mirrored each charm.And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king,With the stormy rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle re-echoing ring.For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er,And Harold, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.For the harrier, Harold the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf,With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.Behold! for the battle was finished, the battle that boomed in the dayWith the rumble of shields that were shocked and the shatter of spears that did slay;With the hewing of swords that fierce lightened hot smoking with riotous blood,And the crush of the mace that was crashed through the helm and the brain that withstood;And the cursing and shrieking of men at their gods – at their gods whom they cursed,Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their struggling burst.And they fought in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow,Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched of the maniac windDrave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.And they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met till the battle god, Thor,From his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.And they fell – like twin rocks of the mountain the ruinous whirlwinds have hurledFrom their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the strength of the world.And, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the stern iron altars of WarTheir flesh, their own flesh, yea, the victim, their blood the libation to Thor…But a glitter and splendor of arms out of snow and the foam of the seas,And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries…Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled,With the steam of the flesh of the boar and the reek of the ale that is spilled.For the Yule and the vict'ry are theirs, and the "waes-heils" are shouted and roaredBy the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls 'round the ponderous board.

THE TROUBADOUR

He stood where all the rare voluptuous West,Like some mad Maenad wine-stained to the breast,Shot from delirious lips of ruby mustLong, fierce, triumphant smiles wherein hot lustSwam like a feverish wine exultant tostHigh from a golden goblet and so lost.And all the West, and all the rosy West,Bathed his frail beauty, hair and throat and breast;And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows,A passion flower of men of snows and roseBeneath the casement of her old red towerWhereat the lady sat, as white a flowerAs ever blew in Provence, and the lace,Mist-like about her hair, half hid her faceAnd all its moods which his sweet singing raised,Sad moods that censured it, sweet moods that praised.And where the white rose climbing over and overUp to her wide-flung lattice like a lover,And gladiolas and deep fleurs-de-lisHeld honey-cups up for the violent bee,Within her garden by the ivied wall,Where many a fountain falling musicalFlamed fire-fierce in the eve against it flung,Like some mad nightingale the minstrel sung: —"The passion, O! of plunging through and throughLascivious curls star-litten as light dew,And jeweled thick, as is the bosomed duskDense scintillant with stars! Oh frenzy rareOf twisting curling fingers in thy hair!No touch of balm-beat winds from torrid seasWere half so satin-soft in sorceries!No god-like life so sweet as lost to lieWrapped strand on strand deep in such hair and die,Ah love, sweet love!"The mounting madness and the rapturous painWith fingers wound in thick, cool curls to strainAll the wild sight deep in thy perilous eyesSo agate polished, where the thoughts that riseWarm in the heart, like on a witch's glassMust forth in pictures beautiful and pass;No Siren sweetness wailed to lyres of gold,No naked beauty that the Greeks of oldGod-bosomed thro' the bursting foam did seeWere potent, love, to tear mine eyes from thee,Ah love, sweet love!"Far o'er the sea of old time once a witch,The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt, so richIn marvelous magic, cruel as a god,She made or unmade lovers at a nod;Ah, bitter love that made all loves but brute! —Ah, bitterer thou who mak'st my heart a luteTo lie and languish for thee sad and mute,Strung high for utterance of the sweetest lay,Such magic music as AcrasiaAnd all her lovers swooned to utter bliss, —And then not wake it with a single kiss,Ah! cruel, cruel love!"Knee-deep within the dew-damp grasses there,Against the stars, that now were everywhereFlung thro' the perfumed heav'ns of angel hands,And, linked in tangled labyrinths of bandsOf soft rose-hearted flame and glimmer, rolledOne vast immensity of mazy gold,He sang, like some hurt creature desolate,Heart-aching for the loss of some wild mateHounded and speared to death of heartless menIn old romantic Arden waste; and thenTurned to the one white star, – which like a stoneOf precious worth low on the heaven shone, —A white, sweet, lovely face and passed awayFrom the warm flowers and the fountains' spray.And that fair lady in pale drapery,High in the quaint, red tower, did she sighTo see him, dimming down the purple night,Lone with his instrument die out of sightFar in the rose-pleached, musk-drunk avenues,Far in, far in amid the gleaming dews,And, left alone but with the sighing rushOf the wan fountains and the deep night hush,Weep to the melancholy stars aboveHalf the lorn night for the desired love?Or down the rush-strewn halls, where arras oldBillowed with passage of her fold on fold,Even to the ponderous iron-studded gate,That shrieked with rust, steal from her lord and waitDeep in the dingled hyacinth and roseFor him who sang so sweetly erst? – who knows?