MOURN’ST THOU NOW?
Long ago from radiant palace.
Dream-bemused, in flood of moon.
Stole the princess Seraphita
Into forest gloom.
Wail of hemlock; cold the dew-drops;
Danced the Dryads in the chace;
Heavy hung ambrosial fragrance;
Moonbeams blanched her ravished face.
Frail and clear the notes delusive;
Mocking phantoms in a rout
Thridded the night-cloistered thickets,
Wove their sorceries in and out . . .
Mourn’st thou now? Or do thine eyelids
Frame a vision dark, divine—
O’er this imp of star and wild-flower—
Of a god once thine?
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