Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/227

Rh THE STRAYED REVELLER.

THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE. EVENING.

.

THE YOUTH.

, faster,

O Circe, goddess,

Let the wild, thronging train,

The bright procession

Of eddying forms,

Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling

Down on me! thy right arm,

Leaned up against the column there,

Props thy soft cheek;

Thy left holds, hanging loosely,

The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,

I held but now.

Is it then evening

So soon? I see, the night-dews,

Clustered in thick beads, dim

The agate brooch-stones

On thy white shoulder;

The cool night-wind, too,

Blows through the portico,

Stirs thy hair, goddess,

Waves thy white robe!