Irene's Dream
But once to hear the hinted music soar
On the full volume of her voice, but once
To revel in the perfect pleasure; yet
Still would she pause—then listen—rebegin,
And always one sweet burden would melt in,
Which, later, baffled yearning memory's search—
Oft caught and lost as by some slippery spell,
To make a want for ever in their souls,
When the belov'd musician was no more.
They asked her what her song meant—rapt awhile
She heard them not, then woke with half a smile;
Yet answered gravely, "'Tis the Fairies' Song.
You must all listen and remember it."
Yet was it lost at last.
Oft too she writ,
A spot of crimson kindling on each cheek,
Her eyes aflash with fever; but with care
Would hide the written page if they drew nigher
Or, questioned, with the petulant, bashful ire
Of youthful genius, or perchance the haste
Of one who dreads a too short hour to waste,
Made hurried answer, and bent down again.
They watched her, grieving, but she spoke at last
In her own studious sanctuary of art
All coloured and pervaded with herself
(As still it is—bright relics set apart,
And all her books untouched upon the shelf).
On the full volume of her voice, but once
To revel in the perfect pleasure; yet
Still would she pause—then listen—rebegin,
And always one sweet burden would melt in,
Which, later, baffled yearning memory's search—
Oft caught and lost as by some slippery spell,
To make a want for ever in their souls,
When the belov'd musician was no more.
They asked her what her song meant—rapt awhile
She heard them not, then woke with half a smile;
Yet answered gravely, "'Tis the Fairies' Song.
You must all listen and remember it."
Yet was it lost at last.
Oft too she writ,
A spot of crimson kindling on each cheek,
Her eyes aflash with fever; but with care
Would hide the written page if they drew nigher
Or, questioned, with the petulant, bashful ire
Of youthful genius, or perchance the haste
Of one who dreads a too short hour to waste,
Made hurried answer, and bent down again.
They watched her, grieving, but she spoke at last
In her own studious sanctuary of art
All coloured and pervaded with herself
(As still it is—bright relics set apart,
And all her books untouched upon the shelf).
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