 | Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems |  |
204
AUGUST.
The soul is like a song-bird, and must holdIts silent August, or its heart would break;
From the hot rushes of the unruffled lake
No warbler pipes, and where the elms enfold
Blackbird and thrush, no music is outrolled;
They wait in solitude and voiceless ache,
Till, with serenest winds, September wake
The enchanted pipes and winged age of gold.
So with the heart; and therefore blame thou not,
Brisk lover, that thy pensive maid is mute,
Wandering beside thee with a downcast air;
She is not heedless, nor thy love forgot,
But passion dons her dreamy autumn suit
To wake renewed in beauty, freshly fair.
| Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems | |