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Page 13
Gaze if thou will,
Thou canst not harm
Eyes shut to subtle charm.
Oh! 'tis my silence
Shows thee false,
Should I be silent else?
Haste thou then by!
Shine not thy face
On mine, and love's disgrace!
Whereat Dianeme lifted on me so na�ve an afflicted face I must needs
beseech another song, despite my drowsy lids. Wherefore I heard, far
away as it were, the plucking of the strings, and a voice betwixt
dream and wake sing:
All sweet flowers
Wither ever,
Gathered fresh
Or gathered never;
But to live when love is gone!--
Grieve, grieve, lute, sadly on!
All I had--
'Twas all thou gav'st me;
That foregone,
Ah! what can save me?
If the ex�rcised spirit fly,
Nought is left to love me by.
Take thy stars,
My tears then leave me;
Thine my bliss,
As thine to grieve me;
Take....
For then, so insidious was the music, and not quite of this earth the
voice, my senses altogether forsook me, and I fell asleep.
Would that I could remember much else! But I confess it is the heart
remembers, not the poor, pestered brain that has so many thoughts and
but one troubled thinker. Indeed, were I now to be asked--Were the
fingers cold of these bright ladies? Were their eyes blue, or hazel,
or brown? or, haply, were Dianeme's that incomparable, dark, sparkling
grey? Wore Julia azure, and Electra white? And was that our poet wrote
our poet's only, or truly theirs, and so even more lovely?--I fear I
could not tell.
I fell asleep; and when I awoke no lute was sounding. I was alone; and
the arbour a little house of gloom on the borders of evening. I caught
up yet one more handful of cherries, and stumbled out, heavy and dim,
into a pale-green firmanent of buds and glow-worms, to seek the poor
Rosinante I had so heedlessly deserted.
But I was gone but a little way when I was brought suddenly to a
standstill by another sound that in the hush of the garden, in the
bright languor after sleep, went to my heart: it was as if a child
were crying.
I pushed through a thick and aromatic clump of myrtles, and peering
between the narrow leaves, perceived the cold, bright face of a little
marble god beneath willows; and, seated upon a starry bank near by,
one whom by the serpentry of her hair and the shadow of her lips I
knew to be Anthea.
"Why are you weeping?" I said.
"I was imitating a little brook," she said.
"It is late; the bat is up; yet you are alone," I said.
"Pan will protect me," she said.
"And nought else?"
She turned her face away. "None," she said. "I live among shadows.
There was a world, I dreamed, where autumn follows summer, and after
autumn, winter. Here it is always June, despite us both."
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