Classic Poem

O pool in which we dallied
And splashed the prostrate Noon!
O Water-boy, more pallid
Than any watery moon!
O Lilies round him turning!
O broken Lilies, strewn!
O silver Lutes of Morning!
O Red of the Drums of Noon!

O dusky-plumaged sorrow!
O ebon Swans of Care—
I sought thee on the Morrow,
And never found thee there!
I breathed the vapour-blended
Cloud of a dim despair:
White lily, is it ended?
Gold lily—oh, golden hair!

The pool that was thy dwelling
I hardly knew again,
So black it was, and swelling
With bitter wind and rain.
Mid the bowed leaves I lingered,
Lashed by the blast of Pain,
Till evening, storm-rose-fingered,
Beckoned to night again.

There burst a flood of Quiet
Over the unstellèd skies;
Full moon flashed out a-riot:
Near her I dreamt thine eyes
Afloat with night, still trembling
With captured mysteries:
But sulphured wracks, assembling,
Redarkened the bright skies.

Ah, thou at least art lying
Safe at the white nymph's feet,
Listless, while I, slow-dying,
Twist my gaunt limbs for heat!
Yet I'll to Earth, my Mother:
So, boy, I'll still entreat
Forgive me—for none other
Like Earth is honey-sweet!