 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
DISTANCE.
Why is it that yon far-off, mellowed horn
Sounds like an antique story, half-forlorn,
Half-sweet, with iterance of rare echoes sent
Up the serenely listening firmament?
Sounds like an antique story, half-forlorn,
Half-sweet, with iterance of rare echoes sent
Up the serenely listening firmament?
I thrill, soul-smitten by each melting tone
About the golden distant spaces blown,
As if soft pathos came on rhythmic sighs
From out the heart of vanished centuries.
About the golden distant spaces blown,
As if soft pathos came on rhythmic sighs
From out the heart of vanished centuries.
Distance is magic! in its fairy hold
Are alchemies that change even dross to gold,—
While beauty's nymph, too closely seen or pressed,
Melts to mere shadow from the enamored quest!
Are alchemies that change even dross to gold,—
While beauty's nymph, too closely seen or pressed,
Melts to mere shadow from the enamored quest!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |