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8
PERCIVAL GIBBON.
KOMANI.
Runs Komani ever?
Weep the willows still?
Gleam the grass-fires nightly
Wreathed upon the hill?
Comes the summer singing?
Tiptoes yet the spring?
Tell me of Komani—
Tell me everything.
For yonder by Komani
I left my lady fair,
Who smiled for ever under
Her aureole of hair—
Smiled and would not hearken,
Heard and would not smile.
I turned me from Komani
A long and weary while.
Often by Komani
I heard my lady's name
Amid the tinkling ripples,
And is it still the same?
Or goes Komani voiceless
Where music used to be,
Forgetful of my lady,
As once she was of me.
Perceval Gibbon.
