European Elegies/Autumn (1)/My tragic muse
6.MY TRAGIC MUSE
Alas, your lovely fingers touched
A tragic lyre:
To veil your sad lament in verse
My lines aspire.
A tragic lyre:
To veil your sad lament in verse
My lines aspire.
There in faint quaverings of fear
Your low voice grieves,
Like a night wind through withered flowers
And fallen leaves;
Your low voice grieves,
Like a night wind through withered flowers
And fallen leaves;
Until in darkness side by side
Once more we sleep,
And whisper to each other still,
And mutely weep.
Once more we sleep,
And whisper to each other still,
And mutely weep.
From the Romaic of Miltiades Malacassis.