 | Wild honey from various thyme |  |
20
SWEET-BASIL
But thou art grown a symbol unto me!Thy speech no more hath passion to entice;
As a sad, languorous wind thou art to me,
As a wind thwarted from the beds of spice.
To look upon thee in thy varying hour,
Thy moods, no more my spirit it contents;
Rhythm I feel of a remoter power,
And sway and falling of the elements.
Thou art no more thyself; I can no more
Reply to thee; thou art a boundless shore
That I am mute beside. Away, begone!—
Some potent semblance creep into thy stead,
Like that Sweet-Basil of the buried head,
A thing that I might brood and dote upon!
| Wild honey from various thyme | |