-18_Euphrosyne.htm

Child of the infant years, Euphrosyne,
Bird of my boyhood, youth’s blithe deity!
If I have hymned thee not with lyric phrase,

Preferring Eros or Aglaia’s praise,
Frown not, thou lovely spirit, leave me not.
Man worships the ungrasped. His vagrant thought

Still busy with the illimitable void
Lives all the time by little things upbuoyed

Which he contemns; the wife unsung remains

Sharing his pleasures, taking half his pains,
While to dream faces mounts the poet’s song.

Yet she makes not their lyric light her wrong,

Knowing her homely eyes his sorrow’s star

Smiles at the eclipsing brow untouched by care.

Content with human love lightly she yields
The immortal fancy its Elysian fields.

              The Nightingale

             AN IMPRESSION

Hark in the trees the low-voiced nightingale
Has slain the silence with a jubilant cry;
How clear in the hushed night, yet voluble
And various as sweet water wavering by,

That murmurs in a channel small
Beneath a low grey wall,
Then sings amid the fitful rye.
O sweet grave Siren of the night,
        Astarte’s eremite,

Thou feedest every leaf with solemn glee,
Lo, the night-winds sigh happier, being chid by thee.     

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