Philumene to Aristides[1]
Master, for love's sake, thank me not for this
That I am dying for thee, who should miss
My crown of life and reason of my days
Did I not spend them for thee ; thanks or praise
I covet not for such a little thing.
Only when in the tenderness of spring
Thou wanderest afterwards where woods are fair,
Then, noting clearer colour in the air.
Or new unusual sweetness in the song
Of lark or linnet, or, amid the throng
Of delicate flowers, one whose hue hath caught
The secret hope wherewith the spring is fraught;
Think then, " These are a message sent to me
From the dear angel of my memory."
So, being yet remembered of you, I
Shall live, who in thy death must surely die.
For often as I watch and weep and moan,
Praying for thee through all the night alone,
A sudden terror catches at my heart;
A spasm of anguish shoots through every part,
A fire burns through my palms and through my feet.
My wet eyes throb and strain in aching heat,
- ↑ Aristides being sick unto death, his pupil Philumene makes a bargain with the gods, who accept her life in exchange for his.
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