O

And, like a martyr, I was blest and curst,

And saved and slain, and crown'd and made anew,

A grief-glad man, with yearnings not a few,

But no just hope to win so fair a troth.

I should have known how one may weep for both

When lovers part, poor souls! beneath the moon,

And how Remembrance may outlive an oath.

x.

[44] 

[44]

The nymphs, I think, were like thee in the glade

T

T

T

Of that Greek valley where the wine was made

For feasts of Bacchus; for I dream at night

Of those creations, kind and calm and bright;

And in my thought, unhallow'd though it be,

The sun-born Muses turn their gaze on me,

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