 | Minuscula |  |
103
Not in Naxos
An August day—a sky o'ercast—
A gray Down sloping to the sea—
A sea like a face where death has passed,
Motionless but for misery.
Hardly a breath in the heavy air,
Hardly a wave on the heaving tide;
The very pebbles were silent there,
Chatterers stilled by the great despair.
No voice was there, nor sound, beside
A faint dull moaning that rose and died,
The mere heart-beat of the ocean wide.
Above was the waste Down, bare and blind,
The dancing place of the winter wind;
Now silent and lone as the wan lamps show
The dancing rooms when the dancers go.
A gray Down sloping to the sea—
A sea like a face where death has passed,
Motionless but for misery.
Hardly a breath in the heavy air,
Hardly a wave on the heaving tide;
The very pebbles were silent there,
Chatterers stilled by the great despair.
No voice was there, nor sound, beside
A faint dull moaning that rose and died,
The mere heart-beat of the ocean wide.
Above was the waste Down, bare and blind,
The dancing place of the winter wind;
Now silent and lone as the wan lamps show
The dancing rooms when the dancers go.
Half-way down, from the cliff-face lent
A tower of chalk, like a battlement,
With a crest of waving grass, like hair.
Motionless sat a maiden there;
Her locks streamed loose, her lips were pale:
Her eyes were fixed on a far-off sail.
A tower of chalk, like a battlement,
With a crest of waving grass, like hair.
Motionless sat a maiden there;
Her locks streamed loose, her lips were pale:
Her eyes were fixed on a far-off sail.
104
An old-world story, a far-off woe,
Made beautiful by its long ago?
Nay, 'tis a different story this!
Yet on her lips is her lover's kiss;
Yet in her heart is the agony;
For this was yesterday, and I,
Who tell it you in the talk of men
I was the Ariadne then.
Made beautiful by its long ago?
Nay, 'tis a different story this!
Yet on her lips is her lover's kiss;
Yet in her heart is the agony;
For this was yesterday, and I,
Who tell it you in the talk of men
I was the Ariadne then.
| Minuscula | |