Thy glance is deep, and no thought is in it; in that clear depth is emptiness.
So in the Elysian field, to the solemn strains of Gluck’s melodies, move without grief or bliss the graceful shades.
November 1879.
STAY!
Stay! as I see thee now, abide for ever in my memory!
From thy lips the last inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is in thy eyes; they are dim, weighed down by the load of happiness, of the blissful sense of the beauty, it has been thy glad lot to express—the beauty, groping for which thou hast stretched out thy yearning hands, thy triumphant, exhausted hands!
What is the radiance—purer and higher than the sun’s radiance—all about thy limbs, the least fold of thy raiment?
What god’s caressing breath has set thy scattered tresses floating?