As the old prophet on the child I fall
And breathe—but no breath answers me at all.
All of my kisses stir no blush, no sigh ;
She will not hear me ever if I call!
Let the far music of oblivious years
Sound in the sea beneath!
Are not its waters one with all my tears?
Hath Atropos no comfort in her shears?
No Muse for me one wreath?
Were I now dead and free to travel far
Whither I will, ah me!
Not whither I must—were there no avatar
Drawn like my love from some close kindred star?
No shape seen on the sea?
Were I now free of this intense desire,
By swift magician power
I might fly westward shod with wings of fire
And find my love, and in her arms expire,
Or wed her for an hour.
(Not for an hour as man, but even as God
Whose day is like an zon.
_Love hath nor station, stage, nor period :
But is at once in his inane abode
Beneath the spring Dircean.)
119