 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
109
Valé
Once the Muse was fair,
Once—when we were young;
Gay and debonair,
Or with pensive air;
So she came, she sung.
Once—when we were young;
Gay and debonair,
Or with pensive air;
So she came, she sung.
Often, through the noise
Of the running stream,
Would we hear her voice—
Hear it and rejoice;
‘Dream not 'twas a dream.’
Of the running stream,
Would we hear her voice—
Hear it and rejoice;
‘Dream not 'twas a dream.’
Could we see her now
Come at a command,
Withered on her brow
Were the wreath—the bough
Broken in her hand.
Come at a command,
Withered on her brow
Were the wreath—the bough
Broken in her hand.
110
Nay, as erst the morn
Floating far away,
More in ruth than scorn
Left her love outworn,
Once his locks were gray.
Floating far away,
More in ruth than scorn
Left her love outworn,
Once his locks were gray.
So, for ever young,
Ever fair, the Muse
Leaves us, who have sung
Till the lute's unstrung;
Doth her grace refuse.
Ever fair, the Muse
Leaves us, who have sung
Till the lute's unstrung;
Doth her grace refuse.
'Tis not she, but we,
That are weary now;
Well, howe'er it be,
Her we shall not see—
Broken is the bough.
That are weary now;
Well, howe'er it be,
Her we shall not see—
Broken is the bough.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |