INTO this tiny, trivial, one-horse town, This pedlar, pitiful, provincial place, Where, drear and desolate, my days go down Towards Death, with sure, inevitable pace, You sudden stepped: an adorable ghost, whose grace Brought—and brings—back that by-gone Breton bow'r Which you made bright, long since, a slender space. ... While I, who stood and watched You, lived my little hour. Your beauty, as pure gold or precious stone, Shone, and still shines. Your aura, swift to chase Sadness and care, bids grief and woe be gone; The Sun himself informs Your eyes, Your face; Even as deep, delicious diapase Your voice enchants my sense: divinest dow'r E'er given to daughter of this mortal race. ... While I, who listen, thrill ... and live my little hour. Full short this slender respite, haply won. I know it imperdurable, and phase. Ere long must I, once more aloof, alone, Essay the ultimate lap of Life's drab days, And walk, unfriended, mid the populace Till I be bludgeoned down by Death's black pow'r, And obscene worms implacably erase, For all time, one who has had, and lived, his little hour. @3Envoi@1 Empress of my sad heart; Princess, whose words and ways Are my sole solace: Queen, Quintessence, Flow'r Of girls, I gladly, gratefully embrace Sentence. Nay, find this sweet, not stern nor dour ... Since my Judge, Fortune, hears me hymn Your praise, And lets me, singing, loving, live my little hour. |