Classic Poem

“Now Paris, grey with April, as though November
Instead of Spring were here,
Hushes its happy voices; to my ear
Come only echoes; and as I remember,
In sudden gleams there rises, swirls, and passes
Image on image of our tarnished fate.
Belovèd ghost,—under your rain-swept grasses,
Do you too love them, now it is too late?

“Sidonian lute!
Sidonian lute!
Into the darkness dies the wandering music,
And I remember the poignant you alone. . . .”