Songs of the Spirit

THE FAREWELL OF PARACELSUS TO APRILE. THOU Sun, whose swift desire to-day is dull, And all ye hosts of heaven, whose lips are mute, And trees and flowers and oceans beautiful Among whose murmurs I have struck this lute With joy supreme or agony acute, And love transcending everything alway, Pity me, pity, since the poisonous root Of parting strikes the beauty of the day ; We meet for the last time beside the ocean gray. Soul of my soul, we never can forget— But, is our parting burnt across the skies ? Is the last word said ? Must our lips be set Not to new song, but to the bitter sighs As of a child whose flower-garden dies, Who knows no hope of some enduring spring ? 41