Classic Poem

Thou know'st the place where purple rocks receive
The deepened silence of the pausing stream;
And myrtles and white olives interweave
Their cool grey shadows with the azure gleam
Of noontide; and pale temple columns cleave
Those waves with shafts of light (as through a dream
Of sorrow, pierced the memories of loved hours—
Cold and fixed thoughts that will not pass away)
All chapleted with wreaths of marble flowers,
Too calm to live,—too lovely to decay.
And hills rise round, pyramidal and vast,
Like tombs built of blue heaven, above the clay
Of those who worshipped here, whose steps have past
To silence—leaving o'er the waters cast
The light of their religion. There, at eve,
That gentle dame would walk, when night-birds make
The starry myrtle blossoms pant and heave
With waves of ceaseless song; she would awake
The lulled air with her kindling thoughts, and leave
Her voice's echo on the listening lake;
The quenched rays of her beauty would deceive
Its depths into quick joy. Hill, wave, and brake
Grew living as she moved: I did believe
That they were lovely, only for her sake;
But now—she is not there—at least, the chill
Hath passed upon her which no sun shall break.
Stranger, my feet must shun the lake and hill:—
Seek them,—but dream not they are lovely still.