Lines: A Lament at the Gathering of the Vintage
Now the golden tire of Phoebus
Turns to trace its shortest arc;
Now, no more sings Philomela
From the leafy turret dark —
Nightingale and swallow flitting,
Voiceless, to the Libyan shore;
Now, upon Demeter's daughter
Shuts the sunken iron door —
And now, young Linus is no more.
He was with us at the pruning
Ere the leaf shot forth the vine;
He was with us in the Maytime
When the buds were red as wine, —
With us, when the summer dewfall
Made the meadows silvery hoar,
Shared our nooning in the shadow,
Shared the toiler's homely store —
But Linus shares with us no more.
He is fled, — the well-beloved
With the lighted eyes of dawn,
With the tresses of sea-amber
And the footstep of the fawn!
If the red-eyed pack of Sirius
His fair-fashioned body tore,
There was found no stain of crimson
On the path his footstep wore;
Yet Linus — Linus comes no more.
He is strangely parted from us,
None received his passing-sigh!
Now, the evening-purple clusters
Heavy on the trellis lie:
When we crush those purple clusters
Filled with sweetness to the core —
Lo! it is the life of Linus
That the presses shall outpour;
But Linus we shall see no more.
He is gone with all of beauty,
Withered from the season's crown,
One by one, slow-faltering downward —
As these vine-leaves falter down!
Other where is other mourning
Ay, the boatman stills his oar,
Stays the shepherd, winding foldward,
At far cries that, searching sore,
Make murmur of no more! no more!
This the burden, this the sorrow,
Where they winnow out the corn;
This the burden breathing lonely
Through the hunter's unblown horn!
Say to those that mourn Adonis,
Trampled by the mountain boar —
Say to those that yet mourn Daphnis,
On the misty threshing floor,
That Linus — Linus is no more!
Ask if they have hope of Daphnis
When the morrow spring is born:
Will he rise among the furrows,
Midst the tender blades of corn?
Ask the foresters if Cypris
Their Adonis will restore?
Plenteous flowers wake after Winter, —
Not the flower that bloomed before!
And Linus — Linus wakes no more.
Turns to trace its shortest arc;
Now, no more sings Philomela
From the leafy turret dark —
Nightingale and swallow flitting,
Voiceless, to the Libyan shore;
Now, upon Demeter's daughter
Shuts the sunken iron door —
And now, young Linus is no more.
He was with us at the pruning
Ere the leaf shot forth the vine;
He was with us in the Maytime
When the buds were red as wine, —
With us, when the summer dewfall
Made the meadows silvery hoar,
Shared our nooning in the shadow,
Shared the toiler's homely store —
But Linus shares with us no more.
He is fled, — the well-beloved
With the lighted eyes of dawn,
With the tresses of sea-amber
And the footstep of the fawn!
If the red-eyed pack of Sirius
His fair-fashioned body tore,
There was found no stain of crimson
On the path his footstep wore;
Yet Linus — Linus comes no more.
He is strangely parted from us,
None received his passing-sigh!
Now, the evening-purple clusters
Heavy on the trellis lie:
When we crush those purple clusters
Filled with sweetness to the core —
Lo! it is the life of Linus
That the presses shall outpour;
But Linus we shall see no more.
He is gone with all of beauty,
Withered from the season's crown,
One by one, slow-faltering downward —
As these vine-leaves falter down!
Other where is other mourning
Ay, the boatman stills his oar,
Stays the shepherd, winding foldward,
At far cries that, searching sore,
Make murmur of no more! no more!
This the burden, this the sorrow,
Where they winnow out the corn;
This the burden breathing lonely
Through the hunter's unblown horn!
Say to those that mourn Adonis,
Trampled by the mountain boar —
Say to those that yet mourn Daphnis,
On the misty threshing floor,
That Linus — Linus is no more!
Ask if they have hope of Daphnis
When the morrow spring is born:
Will he rise among the furrows,
Midst the tender blades of corn?
Ask the foresters if Cypris
Their Adonis will restore?
Plenteous flowers wake after Winter, —
Not the flower that bloomed before!
And Linus — Linus wakes no more.
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