Page:Poet Lore, At the Chasm, volume 24, 1913.pdf/84



A nymph lived long about a stream
 * Till once, when seines were set,

She floated in a blissful dream
 * Straight down against the net.

The fishermen were dull with fear
 * And whispered: ‘What is this?’

But one, young Marco, ventured near
 * And met her with a kiss.

Lithe as a slender willow wand,
 * As quickly reconciled,
 * She met his gaze with glances fond,

Caressed him back, and smiled. She fondled him the livelong day,
 * But when the night came on

The winsome creature slipped away—
 * And Marco’s joy was gone.

He wandered where the river laves
 * Its wooded bank, and cried:

‘Where is she?’ to the passing waves.
 * ‘Who knows?’ the waves replied.

‘’Tis false!’ he raged, ‘You know full well
 * This is her native shore.’

And plunged beneath a mocking swell
 * To find his nymph once more.

The nymph sports on, as women will,
 * And nothing brings to mind

Poor Marco lost and dead. But still
 * He left a song behind,

And you who safely live on land
 * Where poor blind worms belong,

Your deeds will move no poet’s hand,
 * Your name inspire no song.