Page:Poet Lore, At the Chasm, volume 24, 1913.pdf/36

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It was left alone, the ruin,
With its birds and with its blossoms . . .
On a night in chill December.
How did it befall? We know not!


Tale of magic! simple story
Of the mediæval ages!
You are like my life, the story
Of my love! Ah me, so many
Common histories are like you.
My romantic girl, look at me
Deeply; let the sands of diamond
Flash within your orbs of onyx!
Did you know it? Does it please you?
Have I told it well? Then give me
Both your hands—I fain would hold them
For a moment, just a moment!
I am glad and proud and happy
When you with your gaze applaud me.

Tell me, is it true, my lady,
That your heart is all a ruin,
That it beats and throbs no longer,
That the niches all are empty,
That the angels there have fallen,
And that sometimes memories chant there—
Birds still faithful to the ruin—
And again the withered blossoms
Of your tenderness reopen
When upon your clouded memory
Shines the sun of other ages?

My love came, the wonder-worker,
Wizard strong, the good magician,
To that temple. Eve was falling,
Evening with its gloom and sorrows.
He approached it, sad and weary,
For the journey had been painful;
In the center of the ruins
Cried he: 'Let the aisles rise newly,