 | The pink book |  |
TO AN OLD LUTE.
In thine own sun-loved southern land,
Dreaming in rose and lotus long ago,
Some dark-eyed princess, knowing naught of woe,
Made thee to ripple sweetness
'Neath her languid hand.
Dreaming in rose and lotus long ago,
Some dark-eyed princess, knowing naught of woe,
Made thee to ripple sweetness
'Neath her languid hand.
Tall was he, proud of face and limb,
Bronze-headed, with black hair; and beauty-won,
He went before her in the noontide sun:
Anon thy strings she toyed,
Yet ever thought of him.
Bronze-headed, with black hair; and beauty-won,
He went before her in the noontide sun:
Anon thy strings she toyed,
Yet ever thought of him.
And when the golden moon did hang
Upon the dusky blue of that dim night,
She wandered tearful in the misty light,
Told all her love on thee,
And to thy sobbing sang.
Upon the dusky blue of that dim night,
49
Told all her love on thee,
And to thy sobbing sang.
If I but touch thee lying here,
Thou sendest forth vague sounds that seem her sighs,
The sad souls of those ancient melodies
Hum through thee
And die murmuring in mine ear.
Thou sendest forth vague sounds that seem her sighs,
The sad souls of those ancient melodies
Hum through thee
And die murmuring in mine ear.
| The pink book | |