And, when once again the Babel
Rose, though we had never stirred,
There between us at the table
At Frascati’s was the third.

What’s the good of all this antic
You’ll impatiently exclaim,
Still incurably romantic
Still incurably the same.

Only this—that at Frascati’s
If one does not wash one’s hands
That old magic was Astarte’s
Goes, before one understands.

THE WELL.

AT full afternoon slowly the branches
Stirred as of old and fragrant with flowers
Touched with a breath of wind look down and wonder
To where—far below—is the delicate water.

Here should be peace as was peace and splendour
Of hearts’ first stirrings, the eye to the hills
Turned, the call of the perilous margins
Life just beginning, but life well begun.
Here by the well we played (you remember)
(Then too the grasses grew at the edges
Tempting small hands but tempt now no longer)
Here by the well we dreamed after playing.

Have you forgotten (or has death no mercy)
How bright the days were and how the evening
Softer than sleep laid her mysterious
Hands on the garden soothing and changing.
Here at the well side we loved after dreaming
Since we had played by it, since we had dreamed.
Here at the well side love that was wakened
Sank like a stone, but leaving no ripple.

Here are our shapes that play dream love quarrel,
Here are our dreams (and if there were dreamers,
If we were not like our visions a dream)
All is not over—is all then over?

Here is the well and the delicate water
Far below gleaming, the starred white branches
Fragrant with flowers. Here is the noontide,
Even the grasses grow at the edges.
What then is gone? If we were the dreamers
(And not a dream) then all must be over.
I an old man cold, fruitless and lonely,
Watch by the water, which you cannot see.

But if we two are dreams of a dreamer,
All is not over, and here together
Age falls from me, and from you the mantle
Death seemed to cast, and here by the well side
Lifted again is the voice of your singing,
Golden again are the perilous margins,
Sweet are your eyes and young and immortal
Our hearts are set to the day and the hills.