Page:Pictures & poems.djvu/72

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HER lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,   

While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell

 Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell,

The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea.

But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?

 What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,

 In answering echoes from what planisphere,

Along the wind, along the estuary?

She sinks into her spell: and when full soon

 Her lips move and she soars into her song,

 What creatures of the midmost main shall throng

In furrowed surf-clouds to the summoning rune:

 Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry,

 And up her rock, bare-breasted, comes to die?