 | Lays of France |  |
And it befell, another day,
When earth, well ravished of the gay
Turbulent summer, fell to swoon
Under the perfume of the noon,—
That Sarrazine, now rich at heart
With love's fond thinking, felt a part
Of tender pity that must go
And find the grave out there beyond
So many a sea, where, lone and low,
Beneath the palms, that Pharamond
Lay buried, with his love of her,
And bound as though he might not stir,
In meshes of soft growing gold.
And him, believing death must hold
So rigorously his heart and hands
That no fair singing in those lands
Had ever soothed him,—now she named;
And, murmuring softly of him, framed
Her last thought of him in a song;
Singing it idly to the birds,
And finding as she went along
Mere wanton music in the words:
When earth, well ravished of the gay
Turbulent summer, fell to swoon
Under the perfume of the noon,—
That Sarrazine, now rich at heart
126
Of tender pity that must go
And find the grave out there beyond
So many a sea, where, lone and low,
Beneath the palms, that Pharamond
Lay buried, with his love of her,
And bound as though he might not stir,
In meshes of soft growing gold.
And him, believing death must hold
So rigorously his heart and hands
That no fair singing in those lands
Had ever soothed him,—now she named;
And, murmuring softly of him, framed
Her last thought of him in a song;
Singing it idly to the birds,
And finding as she went along
Mere wanton music in the words:
| Lays of France | |