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I.
A DREAM of interlinking hands, of feet | |
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof | |
Of the entangling waltz. Bright eyebeams meet, | |
Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof. | |
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow | 5 |
Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms | |
Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling snow | |
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms. | |
Hark to the music! How beneath the strain | |
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs | 10 |
One fundamental chord of constant pain, | |
The pulse-beat of the poet’s heart that throbs. | |
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice, | |
The troubled sea’s disconsolate, deep voice. | |
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II.
Who shall proclaim the golden fable false | 15 |
Of Orpheus’ miracles? This subtle strain | |
Above our prose world’s sordid loss and gain | |
Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz, | |
The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song | |
Of love and languor, varied visions rise, | 20 |
That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes. | |
The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long, | |
The seraph-souled musician, breathes again | |
Eternal eloquence, immortal pain. | |
Revived the exalted face we know so well, | 25 |
The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame, | |
Slowly consuming with its inward flame— | |
We stir not, speak not, lest we break the spell. | |
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III.
A voice was needed, sweet and true and fine | |
As the sad spirit of the evening breeze, | 30 |
Throbbing with human passion, yet divine | |
As the wild bird’s untutored melodies. | |
A voice for him ’neath twilight heavens dim, | |
Who mourneth for his dead, while round him fall | |
The wan and noiseless leaves. A voice for him | 35 |
Who sees the first green sprout, who hears the call | |
Of the first robin on the first spring day. | |
A voice for all whom Fate hath set apart, | |
Who, still misprized, must perish by the way, | |
Longing with love, for that they lack the art | 40 |
Of their own soul’s expression. For all these | |
Sing the unspoken hope, the vague, sad reveries. | |
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IV.
Then Nature shaped a poet’s heart,—a lyre | |
From out whose chords the slightest breeze that blows | |
Drew trembling music, wakening sweet desire. | 45 |
How shall she cherish him? Behold! she throws | |
This precious, fragile treasure in the whirl | |
Of seething passions: he is scourged and stung; | |
Must dive in storm-vext seas, if but one pearl | |
Of art or beauty therefrom may be wrung. | 50 |
No pure-browed pensive nymph his Muse shall be: | |
An Amazon of thought with sovereign eyes, | |
Whose kiss was poison, man-brained, worldly-wise, | |
Inspired that elfin, delicate harmony. | |
Rich gain for us! But with him is it well?— | 55 |
The poet who must sound earth, heaven, and hell! | |
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