| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
POETIC TRIFLES, 241 |
||
|
On chant of stately swell,
With measured feet and slow, As grave as minster bell,
As vesper tolling low,
Do some their praise bestow ; Some on sestinas sad ; y
But would I choose them ?—no, For me the blithe ballade !
Envoi.
Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add ; But would I choose them ?—no,
For me the blithe ballade !
Clinton Scollard.
BALLADE.
O Love, whom I have never seen,
Yet ever hope to see ; The memory that might have been,
The hope that yet may be ; The passion that persistently
Makes all my pulses beat With unassuaged desire that we
Some day may come to meet:
This August night outspread serene,
The scent of flower and tree, The fall of water that unseen
Moans on incessantly, That line of fire, where breaks the sea
In ripples at my feet; What mean they all, if not that we
Some day may come to meet ?
About your window bowered in green
The night wind wanders free, While out into the night you lean,
And dream, but not of me,
B |
||