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Themes and Variations
Of poets, whose mysterious melody,
Frailest and longest-lived of earthly things,
Still sings above the forward-blowing wind,
A living voice when pyramids are dust,—
We spoke in love; but then we first fell out;
She was all for the new; I loved the old—
Those green and moss-grown alleys of the past,
Where sinks the still light thro’ the silent glade,
And statues wait, half-blinded by the leaves,
Listening for footfalls that will never come.
Frailest and longest-lived of earthly things,
Still sings above the forward-blowing wind,
A living voice when pyramids are dust,—
We spoke in love; but then we first fell out;
She was all for the new; I loved the old—
Those green and moss-grown alleys of the past,
Where sinks the still light thro’ the silent glade,
And statues wait, half-blinded by the leaves,
Listening for footfalls that will never come.
She would not hear great Milton’s organ roll,
Nor walk with Spencer by the lilied shore—
But we made peace beside the Laureate’s song,
And then we read his dream of beauties dead,
And as she smiled, I spoke of one to-day,—
Blonde Clytie, with the graceful statue-head,
The smile that wakes like sparkles on still seas;
The lute-string voice; but Esther there arose,
Saying she was weary of the waves’ dull song,
She must go home. Her eyes were dark and proud,
She would not even let me walk with her.
Now what has vexed her? For I cannot tell.
There is a foolish song I used to hear.
Nor walk with Spencer by the lilied shore—
But we made peace beside the Laureate’s song,
And then we read his dream of beauties dead,
And as she smiled, I spoke of one to-day,—
Blonde Clytie, with the graceful statue-head,
The smile that wakes like sparkles on still seas;
The lute-string voice; but Esther there arose,
Saying she was weary of the waves’ dull song,
She must go home. Her eyes were dark and proud,
She would not even let me walk with her.
Now what has vexed her? For I cannot tell.
There is a foolish song I used to hear.
‘Fair women are strange at the best,
And the best are the strangest, it seems;
You must wait till their mood passes by,
Good-night then, dear lady, sweet dreams!’
And the best are the strangest, it seems;
You must wait till their mood passes by,
Good-night then, dear lady, sweet dreams!’