![]() Where one whose feet with tired wanderingĪre faint and broken may take heart and go,70Īnd from those dark depths cool and crystallineĭrink, and draw balm, and sleep for sleepless souls, and anodyne. When we lie weeping for some sweet sad sin, some dead delight. Nor doth the red-toothed lightning ever dare Nor ever falls the swift white-feathered snow, Which leaves our English forests bleak and bare, There never does that dreary north-wind blow Peers through the myrtle-leaves and sighs for pain of lonely60 Laughs low for love, till jealous Salmacis Which would be white yet blushes at its pride, Queen Venus with the shepherd at her side, There in the green heart of some garden close ![]() The frightened boy from Ida through the blue Ionian air. His curls all tossed, as when the eagle bare Of wind-stirred lilies, while young Ganymede Her grand white feet flecked with the saffron dust50 ![]() There walks Queen Juno through some dewy mead Their torch-bearer, stands with his torch a-blaze,īy its twelve maidens through the crimson hazeįresh from Endymion's arms comes forth the moon,Īnd the immortal Gods in toils of mortal passions swoon. There all day long the golden-vestured sun, The poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep. Kissing each other's mouths, and mix more deep Like swarming flies the crowd of little men,īack to their lotus-haunts they turn again40 What evil things the heart of man could dream, and dreaming do.Īnd far beneath the brazen floor they see Mourning the old glad days before they knew They sleep, they sleep, beneath the rocking trees Strewing with leaves of rose their scented wine, They sit at ease, our Gods they sit at ease, Of all our endless sins, our vain endeavourīy pain or prayer or priest, and never, never,īut send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will.30 Scatters the chestnut blossom, or the gleamĪlas! the Gods will give nought else from their eternal store.įor our high Gods have sick and wearied grown The fallen snow of petals where the breeze20 White lilies, in whose cups the gold bees dream, Mark how she wreathes each horn with mist, yon late and labouring She cannot hear that love-enraptured tune,. So soft she sings the envious moon is pale, Have we not lips to kiss with, hearts to love, and eyes to see!ĭost thou not hear the murmuring nightingale One pulse of passion-youth's first fiery glow,-Īre worth the hoarded proverbs of the sage:10 Man sought of seer and oracle, and no reply was told.įor, sweet, to feel is better than to know, Too young art thou to waste this summer night Roleplay | Writing Forum | Viral news today | Music Theoryįrom passionate pain to deadlier delight,.
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