The Winged Beetle

66 TELEPATHY The sobs, the sighs, the throbs, the cries Of love are nothing to me. My lady’s magic madness flies Like poison through and through me ! Yea, love ; my echo is as loud As all the cries of all the crowd. The shaft of love she shot in May Still rankles in September ; The flames in June that died away Have yet a lively ember. I force myself to dream all day : Night wakes me—I remember. Yea ; in the night thou lackest me. And I ? Ah surely I lack thee ! I must remember how we stood And let mad Paris pass us (Holding one moment to be good, For all the years surpass us.) And touched in our beatitude The peak of Mount Parnassus. Yea ; we did well to break the bars, And dwell one moment with the stars ! We played the ancient Comedy That Pan taught to the Satyrs.