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Child of the infant years, Euphrosyne,
Bird of my boyhood, youth’s blithe deity!
If I have hymned thee not with lyric phrase,
Preferring
Eros or Aglaia’s praise,
Frown not, thou lovely spirit, leave me not.
Man worships the ungrasped. His vagrant thought
Still
busy with the illimitable void
Lives all the time by little things upbuoyed
Which
he contemns; the wife unsung remains
Sharing
his pleasures, taking half his pains,
While to dream faces mounts the poet’s song.
Yet
she makes not their lyric light her wrong,
Knowing
her homely eyes his sorrow’s star
Smiles
at the eclipsing brow untouched by care.
Content with human love lightly
she yields
The immortal fancy
its Elysian fields.
The Nightingale
AN
IMPRESSION
Hark in the trees the low-voiced nightingale
Has slain the silence with a jubilant cry;
How clear in the hushed night, yet voluble
And various as sweet water wavering by,
That
murmurs in a channel small
Beneath a low grey wall,
Then sings amid the fitful rye.
O sweet grave Siren of the night,
Astarte’s
eremite,
Thou
feedest every leaf with solemn glee,
Lo, the night-winds sigh happier, being chid by thee.
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