"Come," you say, "the soul is fainting
Till she search and learn her own,
And the wisdom of man's painting
Leaves her riddle half unknown.
Come," you say, "the brain is seeking,
While the princely heart is dead;
Yet this gleaned, when gods were speaking,
Rarer secrets than the toiling head.
"Come," you say, "opinion trembles,
Judgment shifts, convictions go;
Life dries up, the heart dissembles:
Only, what we feel, we know.
Hath your wisdom known emotions?
Will it weep our burning tears?
Hath it drunk of our love-potions
Crowning moments with the weight of years?"
I am dumb. Alas! too soon all
Man's grave reasons disappear!
Yet, I think, at God's tribunal
Some large answer you shall hear.
But for me, my thoughts are straying
Where at sunrise, through your vines,
On these lawns I saw you playing,
Hanging garlands on your odorous pines;
When your showering locks inwound you,
And your heavenly eyes shone through;
When the pine-boughs yielded round you,
And your brows were starred with dew;
And immortal forms, to meet you,
Down the statued alleys came,
And through golden horns, to greet you,
Blew such music as a god may frame.
