html website builder

THE sky weeps white tears that freeze
On the rosy days that are dead;
And Cupids with chapped skin red,
And broken pinions, are fled
Shivering under the trees.


The falling evenings have died,
That we dreamed in the cascade spray.
Les Angéliques, where are they!
And their souls, that were ever at play,
And their hearts with ribbons tied?...


The wind in the wild-wood rages,
In the leafage where lovers, wooing,
Bemoaned their heart's undoing,
And wove their vows with the cooing
Of the languorous turtles in cages.


The turtles are dead like the leaves,
The flutes and the violins sigh
No more, under leaves as they lie,
Sounds sweeter than words are which die
Along the irresolute eves.


This melody--hark!--the farewell
Of the last oboe from the core
Of the forest ere it be frore,
As if all the days of yore
Drop by drop in the spirit fell.


O glinting satins, O white
Powdered hair, O muslins fine,
O Miranda! O Rosaline!
Under the stars crystalline,
O dream of the blue ashen night!


O how the brutal wind on the doors as he passes knocks!
The shepherdesses are dead, all, and the shepherds in their smocks.


Dead is the gallant folly,
And the Beauty who slept in the holly,
Deep in its age-tangled bowers;
And dead are the sweet-scented flowers!


And thou, O melancholy,
Pale sister of reveries, rise,
Moon of the dead rose skies.