ORPHEUS
O hours not of day
But of zons that roll !
Earth stretches away
From pole unto pole;
Four seasons decay,
Ere one sound of thy soul,
O fervent and following years, springs over the solar goal !
Come forth to the sound
Of the seven sweet strings!
Advance and rebound!
Be your pomp as a king’s!
Girdled around
With seasons and stings
As a serpent’s encompassing Time. Come forth! on the
heavy grey wings!
Ye arbiter lords
That sit as for doom,
Bright splendour of swords
Leaps forth in your gloom !
But stronger my chords
Shall lift in your womb
The love of your passage and time, immemorial ages,
your tomb. :
Ye linger for long,
But ye pass and are done:
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