That bubbled by our door.
That bubbled by our door. And then, perchance
(O anodyne for all dark-memoried days!),
To feel the touch of little clinging hands
And hold your child and mine close on this breast,
And croon it songs and tunes quite meaningless
Unto the bosom where no milk has been,
And fonder than the poolside flutings low
Of dreaming frogs to their Arcadian Pan.
There had I borne to you a sailor-folk,
A tawny-haired swart brood of boys, as brave
As mine old Phaon was, cubbed by the sea
And buffeted by wind and brume; and I,
On winter nights when all the waves were black,
In musing-wise had told them tales and dreams
Of Lesbian days, e’en though the words should sound
To my remembering heart, so far from home,
As mournful as the wind to imprisoned men;
—Old tales they should re-tell long ages hence
Unto their children’s children by the fire
When loud the dark South-West that brings the rain
Moaned round their eaves. And in more happy days
By some pale silver summer moon, when dim
The waters were—mysterious eves of dusk,
And music, stars, and silence, when the sea
Sighs languorously as a god in sleep—
Singing into my saddened heart should come
White thoughts, to bloom in words as roses break
And blow and wither and are gone; and we,
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