HE that hath pleasant dreams is more fortunate
than one who hath a cup-bearer.
--Egyptian Proverb.






SO, THOU ART GONE

So, thou art gone; and I am left to wear
Thy memory as a golden amulet
Upon my breast, to sing a chansonnette
Of winter tones, when summer time is here.

And yet, my heart arises from the dark,
Where it fell back in silence when you went
To seaward, and a sprite malevolent
Sat laughing in the white sails of thy barque.

'Twas not moth-wings dashing against the flame,
Burning in love's areanum; 'twas a cry
Struck from soul-crossing chords, that, separate, frame