ARTHUR TO GUENEVER
|
O Guenever, O Guenever once mine, God may assoil thy failing, but can I Whose quivering soul is blasted, and whose sky Is tempest-rent in agony?—Ah, thine, Thine might have been the fire that should refine My table round to silver chastity, Lofty ensample to mine Hall. Oh, why Should thy soft light no longer purely shine For my parched soul to bathe in? Guenever, My Guenever, yet thou wert only mortal— So too am I; and shall thy every tear Of anguish well, and I not mark? O hear, And help me, God, to open wide the portal Of pardon in my heart for Guenever— April 10, 1912. |
THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON
|
A gutted wick, still flutteringly aflame Upon a roughened bench—bare walls, bare floor, And glimmering gray of sunrise—yes, and more— Ah, brother, for I call thee by that name— Mine eyes tear-blinded to thy figure came, Thy figure fallen like a flower when hoar Frosts blight. Thy soul wont like the lark to soar The light-flushed dawn, now takes a loftier aim. Thy funeral chant, the slow-entoning wind; Thy churchèd tomb, the pillared vault of morn; Thy requiem, the birds: Thus art thou dead, Pale, spectred want, thy tribute from thy kind; But God, himself, thy dirges shall adorn With sighing psalms of every wind that's sped. May 8, 1912. |