Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/23

Rh

It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song. If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame; It is thy work, thou faithless one! But, no!—I will not name thy name! Sun-god, lute, wreath are vowed to thee! Long be their light upon my grave— My glorious grave—yon deep blue sea: I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!

! with what idolatry I ’ve lingered in thy radiant halls, Worshipping, till my dizzy eye Grew dim with gazing on those walls,