A soft wind Blows from the evening star, Blows through budding maples up to my window. It brings upon its breast, from the April streets, Voices of children And of lovers leaning tenderly under new leaves. A dog bays... plaintive, distant, insistent. Some fibre of him remembers, As the scented moon floats, Primitive trails and mating calls Before he followed man.... He bays again and I tremble a little With wildness, loneness, longing. There is music somewhere... Mellowness... mute... everywhere, Febrile passion pervading the night Like a tincture, ancient, ineffable... A tincture eternally restive. Antony! it was this that drove you To Egypt and Cleopatra. Abelard, your God was too weak for it! |