LXXXV. AGE. I WILL not rail, or grieve when torpid eld Then knew himself indeed dear Nature's child, If, dying these, we drew a selfish breath; But one path travel all her multitudes, And none dispute the solemn Voice that saith: 'Sun to thy setting; to your autumn, woods; Stream to thy sea; and man unto thy death!' LXXXVI. DANTE. POET, whose unscarr'd feet have trodden Hell, The spirits cursed beyond imagining? Neither and both, thou seeker ! I have been Which having rent I gaze around, and know Curtain the soul that strives and sins below. LXXXVII. FEBRUARY IN ROME. WHEN Roman fields are red with cyclamen, The ruined city of immortal men Must smile, a little to her fate resigned; And through her corridors the slow warm wind Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken. Such soft favonian airs upon a flute, Such shadowy censers burning live perfume, Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit, LXXXVIII. ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS. WHAT curled and scented sun-girls, almond-eyed, With lotus blossoms in their hands and hair, Have made their swarthy lovers call them fair, With these spent strings, when brutes were deified, And Memnon in the sunrise sprang and cried, And love-winds smote Bubastis, and the bare As fresh as when its fluting smote the heart LXXXIX. ALCYONE. (A Sonnet in Dialogue.) Phoebus. WHAT voice is this that wails above the deep? Alcyone. A wife's, that mourns her fate and loveless days. Phoebus. What love lies buried in these waterways? Phœbus. The waters in a fiery blaze Proclaim the godhead of my healing rays. Alcyone. No god can sow where fate hath stood to reap. Phoebus. Hold, wringing hands! cease, piteous tears, to fall. Alcyone. But grief must rain and glut the passionate sea. Phoebus. Thou shall forget this ocean and thy wrong, And I will bless the dead, though past recall. Alcyone. What can'st thou give to me or him in me? Phoebus. A name in story and a light in song. |