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A CHILD OF THE AGE
OH for a voice that in a single song
WOMAN whose familiar face I hold
In my most sacred thought as in a shrine, Who in my memories art become divine Dost thou remember now those years of old When out of all thine own life thou didst mould This life and breathe thy heart in this of mine, Winning, for faith in that fair work of thine, To rest and be in heaven?—Alas, behold!Another woman coming after thee Hath had small pity,—with a wanton kiss Hath quite consumed my heart and ruined this The life that was thy work: O Mother, see; Thou hast lived all in vain, done all amiss; Come down from heaven again, and die with me!
THIS is the glamour of the world antique;
| The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair. The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek The amber haunts of bees and on the peak Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky, She stands, a dream from out the days gone by. Entreat her not. Indeed she will not speak. Her eyes are full of dreams and in her ears There is the rustle of immortal wings; And ever and anon the slow breeze bears The mystic murmur of the song she sings. Entreat her not: she sees thee not nor hears Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone Springs.
FAIR angel, I have sought thee many a day,
IS there no sweetness save of ripened fruit?