O sun and summer! Say in what far night,
The gold and green, the glory of thine head,
Of bough and branch have fallen? Oh, the white
Gaunt ghosts that flutter where thy feet have sped,
Across the terrace that is desolate,
And rang then with thy laughter, ghost of thee,
That holds its shroud up with most delicate,
Dead fingers, and behind the ghost of me,
Tripping fantastic with a mouth that jeers
At roseal flowers of youth the turbid streams
Toss in derision down the barren years
To death the host of all our golden dreams.
AFTER PAUL VERLAINE
I
_Il pleut doucement sur la ville_.--RIMBAUD
Tears fall within mine heart,
As rain upon the town:
Whence does this languor start,
Possessing all mine heart?
O sweet fall of the rain
Upon the earth and roofs!
Unto an heart in pain,
O music of the rain!
Tears that have no reason
Fall in my sorry heart:
What! there was no treason?
This grief hath no reason.
Nay! the more desolate,
Because, I know not why,
(Neither for love nor hate)
Mine heart is desolate.
II
COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL
Into the lonely park all frozen fast,
Awhile ago there were two forms who passed.
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