When pleasure ran, a rippling tide,
And Phillida with Phyllis carolled,
Ere Werther yet for Lotte sighed,
Or English maids adored Childe Harold;
Ere music shook the central heart,
Or soared to spheral heights inhuman,
Ere Titans stormed the heaven of art,
Let by the hammer-welder, Schumann.
Ah, well, we sigh beneath the load,
We sing our pain, our pride, our passion,
And Weltschmerz is the modern mode,
But sweet seventeen is still a fashion.
Let be a while the Infinite,
Those chords with tremulous fervour laden,
Where Chopin’s fire and dew unite—
I choose instead one mortal maiden.
Let sorrow rave, and sadness fret,
And all our century’s ailments pester,
I am not quite despairful yet—
There, at the keyboard, sits a Hester.
UNUTTERED
Song that is pent in me,
Song that is aching,
Ne’er to escape from me,
Sleeping or waking,
Down aspic! the dust of me,
Blown the world over
A century hence
Will envenom a lover.
His red lips grow vocal,
His great word is new,
And the world knows my secret,
Is dreaming of you.