There dark and quiet faces come and go
Around me, then again the shriek of arms,
And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.
What are they? Even shadows such as I.
What make they? Even this--the sport of Gods -
The sport of Gods, however free they seem.
Ah would the game were ended, and the light,
The blinding light, and all too mighty suns,
Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades,
Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,
Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
Ah, would 't were the cloud's playtime, when the sun
Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame,
And through the sky we flit, and gather grey,
Like men that leave their golden youth behind,
And through their wind-driven ways they gather grey,
And we like them grow wan, and the chill East
Receives us, as the Earth accepts all men, -
But WE await the dawn of a new day.
SONNETS TO POETS.
JACQUES TAHUREAU. 1530.
Ah thou! that, undeceived and unregretting,
Saw'st Death so near thee on the flowery way,
And with no sigh that life was near the setting,
Took'st the delight and dalliance of the day,
Happy thou wert, to live and pass away
Ere life or love had done thee any wrong;
Ere thy wreath faded, or thy locks grew grey,
Or summer came to lull thine April song,
Sweet as all shapes of sweet things unfulfilled,
Buds bloomless, and the broken violet,
The first spring days, the sounds and scents thereof;
So clear thy fire of song, so early chilled,
So brief, so bright thy life that gaily met
Death, for thy Death came hand in hand with Love.
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