|
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. | |
|
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. | |
|
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. | |
|
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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