Born Out of Due Time
If I be born too late, and if for me
Beside the sea-wave still white Venus stands
With tenderest witchery in soft outstretched hands,—
If still along the moonlight-dimpled sea
I hear far sounds as of the silver glee
Of sea-nymphs making for the weed-flecked strands,—
If summer beckons me from balmier lands,
Why must ye, O ye people, turn from me?
Oh, worship ye your gods, and leave me mine!
Think ye that never ripples shone so fair
As those of Galilee? A sweeter air
Trembles along the blue waves' creamy line
And lifts the tresses of dark groves of pine
Whereby the old gods' passionate temples were!
Beside the sea-wave still white Venus stands
With tenderest witchery in soft outstretched hands,—
If still along the moonlight-dimpled sea
I hear far sounds as of the silver glee
Of sea-nymphs making for the weed-flecked strands,—
If summer beckons me from balmier lands,
Why must ye, O ye people, turn from me?
Oh, worship ye your gods, and leave me mine!
Think ye that never ripples shone so fair
As those of Galilee? A sweeter air
Trembles along the blue waves' creamy line
And lifts the tresses of dark groves of pine
Whereby the old gods' passionate temples were!
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