TIDINGS
LISTEN, I who love thee well
Have travelled far, and secrets tell;
Cold the moon that gleams thine eyes,
Yet beneath her further skies
Rests for thee, a paradise.
I have plucked a flower in proof,
Frail, in earthly light forsooth:
See, invisible it lies
In this palm: now veil thine eyes:
Quaff its fragrancies.
Would indeed my throat had skill
To breathe thee music, faint and still—
Music learned in dreaming deep
In those lands, from Echo's lip ...
'Twould lull thy soul to sleep.