And slow as the autumn dew
Tears gather in my eyes, to fall
Scattered like dewdrops from a shaken flower
On my coarse-woven dress.
See here the marks, imprint of tangled love,
That all the world will read.
GARDENER.
I said “I will forget,”
CHORUS.
And got worse torment so
Than by remembrance. But all in this world
Is as the horse of the aged man of the land of Sai;[118]
And as a white colt flashes
Past a gap in the hedge, even so our days pass.[119]
And though the time be come,
Yet can none know the road that he at last must tread,
Goal of his dewdrop-life.
All this I knew; yet knowing,
Was blind with folly.
GARDENER.
“Wake, wake,” he cries,—
CHORUS.
The watchman of the hours,—
“Wake from the sleep of dawn!”
And batters on the drum.
For if its sound be heard, soon shall he see
Her face, the damask of her dress ...
Aye, damask! He does not know
That on a damask drum he beats,
Beats with all the strength of his hands, his aged hands,
But hears no sound.
“Am I grown deaf?” he cries, and listens, listens:
Rain on the windows, lapping of waves on the pool—
Both these he hears, and silent only
The drum, strange damask drum.
Oh, will it never sound?
I thought to beat the sorrow from my heart,
Wake music in a damask drum; an echo of love
From the voiceless fabric of pride!