XCV

HARK, where Poseidon’s
White racing horses
Trample with tumult
The shelving seaboard!

Older than Saturn,

Older than Rhea,
That mournful music,
Falling and surging

With the vast rhythm
Ceaseless, eternal,

Keeps the long tally
Of all things mortal.

How many lovers
Hath not its lulling
Cradled to slumber

With the ripe flowers,

Ere for our pleasure
This golden summer
Walked throught the corn-lands
In gracious splendour!

How many loved ones
Will it not croon to,
In the long spring-days
Through coming ages,

When all our day-dreams

Have been forgotten,
And none remembers
Even thy beauty!

They too shall slumber
In quiet places,