But voices bid me rise once more, ÆGROTUS. This is Earth's bitter cup: ALAUDA. A secret Spirit gifteth me. With song, and wing that lifteth me, "Wake! wake!" ÆGROTUS. My hope hath lost its wing. Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing Thy tears made musical? Alas for me! Is all my song, PHILOMELA. a waste of fire That will not fade nor fail; To me, dim shapes of ancient crime. Moan through the windy ways of time, ÆGROTUS. Wail! wail!" This is the sick man's song, Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries "How long! And the Night answers it. A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA. DOWN where the garden grows, Spake to her mate the Rose After this manner : "We are the first of flowers, Plain-land or hilly, All reds and whites are ours, Then to the flowers I spake, "Watch ye my Lady Gone to the leafy brake, Silent and shady; When I am near to her, Lily, she knows; How I am dear to her, Look to it, Rose." Straightway the Blue-bell stooped, Paler for pride, Down where the Violet drooped, Shy, at her side: "Sweetheart, save me and you, Where has the summer kist Flowers of as fair a hue, Turkis or Amethyst?" Therewith I laughed aloud, 66 "O little flowers so proud, Have ye seen eyes Change through the blue in them, Change till the mere Loving that grew in them. 66 Turned to a tear? Flowers, ye are bright of hue, Delicate, sweet; Flowers, and the sight of you. Lightens men's feet; Yea; but her worth to me, Flowerets, even, Sweetening the earth to me, Sweeteneth heaven. "This, then, O Flowers, I sing; God, when He made ye, Made yet a fairer thing |