120
MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY
Hark! the rushes render,
Accents dreamy, tender,
And they quiver, as 'neath kisses
Thy bosom in its splendour.
They flow in sorrow blent.
Night is a flower; there went
From out its bosom, spreading languor,
A music-laden scent!
Naught brings such grievous pain
As a flute with passionate strain,
When in the rosy glow of eve
The light of day doth wane.
"Music in the Soul" (1886).
THE GRAVE-YARD IN THE SONG
Nightingale, on whom in nights of splendour Hafiz was intent,
Where sing'st thou now?
Rose, o'er whom full often Dante, plunged in meditation, bent,
Where bloom'st thou now?
Star of sweetness, unto whose dream-laden brightness from his cell,
Tasso's woeful plaint was lifted and his thronging sighs were sent,
Where gleam'st thou now?
