They have shorn his strength with reaping, Left him cold; Now he wakes each morning weeping, Weak and old.
And last night he sought my casement, Came and fled; Wailed for aid from roof to basement, Touched my bed.
Though I cannot find his ransom, Ere he dies; I will pay all that I can—some Hopes and sighs.
ERE they parted for Cythera When the spring had reached its bloom, Phyllis, Doris and Neaera Peeped into their pictured room, Wished to go, yet wished to linger, Lifted each a taper finger, Threw a kiss towards their portraits set in walls of rose brocade.
Where the beeches lift a curtain Over shifting sunlit scenes, They with footsteps light and certain Used to dance like fairy queens; Now they speed beneath the beeches Till the path the water reaches And the bay just softly ripples by a marble balustrade.
Purple were the sails that beckoned And the deck was ivory, Love stood smiling there and reckoned His embarking company; Every mast wore silver sheathing, Music in the air was breathing, In the rigging little laughing cupids upwards climbed and strayed.
On they sailed through fields of azure, White was all their furrowed way, Melting in a blue erasure, Melting fast like yesterday; Radiant Hope still steered them hoping, Steered them past the woodlands sloping, Where the doves descend and flutter on an ancient colonnade.
On they passed through golden hazes, Watching distant peaks of snow, On through shadowed island mazes, Where the dreamy spices blow; Till the moon herself was setting, And the dew fell fast and wetting, And the silver masts no image on the blackening waves displayed.
Frayed are now the rose-red panels Filled with squares of rare brocade, In the ceiling Time carves channels Where the frescoes slowly fade; Chipped are now the scrolls of plaster, Which a skilled Italian master Moulded all along the cornice, and with tips of gold o’erlaid.
But the shallow oval spaces Underneath the white festoons, Hold the tender pastel faces Waiting endless afternoons; For they never touched Cythera, Phyllis, Doris, and Neaera, And again they never landed by the marble balustrade.
UP at the church at the edge of the moor, Flat on the pathway that leads to the door, Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor, There is a face that is fit for God’s floor.