Part 68 (1/2)

XXV

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.

Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

XXVI

Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear: Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear.

XXVII

A PASTORAL

Damon was sitting in the grove With Phyllis, and protesting love; And she was listening; but no word Of all he loudly swore she heard.

How! was she deaf then? no, not she, Phyllis was quite the contrary.

Tapping his elbow, she said, 'Hus.h.!.+

O what a darling of a thrus.h.!.+

I think he never sang so well As now, below us, in the dell.'

XXVIII

THE LOVER

Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far, It seems that there are worlds between us; s.h.i.+ne here again, thou wandering star!

Earth's planet! and return with Venus.

At times thou broughtest me thy light When restless sleep had gone away; At other times more blessed night Stole over, and prolonged thy stay.

XXIX

THE POET WHO SLEEPS

One day, when I was young, I read About a poet, long since dead, Who fell asleep, as poets do In writing--and make others too.

But herein lies the story's gist, How a gay queen came up and kist The sleeper.

'Capital!' thought I.

'A like good fortune let me try.'