A complaint.
49
Set in the desert's shadow dense,
But die, ah me! alone.
Their pale lips breathed, for perfume, song;
Confiding unto speech their wrong,
And, for that I had loved them long,
To me they made their moan.
But die, ah me! alone.
Their pale lips breathed, for perfume, song;
Confiding unto speech their wrong,
And, for that I had loved them long,
To me they made their moan.
A purple orchis by a brook
Began,—"I see not from my nook
Aught but the summer skies, that look
Alike on bud and flower.
Now I am fading, who .will know,
With grief that from the earth I go?
Who loved me? still the ripples flow
And laugh from hour to hour."
Began,—"I see not from my nook
Aught but the summer skies, that look
Alike on bud and flower.
Now I am fading, who .will know,
With grief that from the earth I go?
Who loved me? still the ripples flow
And laugh from hour to hour."
Then a wild-rose complains of death,
That chills the sweetness of her breath,
And more that no clear echo saith
To clearer tones,—"Farewell!"
And all the blossoms joined her plaint,
Till the first murmur, sad and faint,
Made in my ear a loud complaint,
Yet sweet as chimes a bell.
That chills the sweetness of her breath,
And more that no clear echo saith
To clearer tones,—"Farewell!"
And all the blossoms joined her plaint,
Till the first murmur, sad and faint,
Made in my ear a loud complaint,
Yet sweet as chimes a bell.
Then I made answer,—"Beauty grows
For beauty's sake, though no man knows
For beauty's sake, though no man knows
