(To Sylvia.)My Love, my Love, it was a day in June,
A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon;
And all the eager people thronging
To that great hall, drawn by the magic
Of one, a high magician, who can
The spirits of the past and future days,
And draw the dreams from out the secret breast,
Giving them life and shape. I, with the rest,
Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound;
And as my aimless glances wandered round,
Far off, across the hush'd, expectant throng,
I saw your face that fac'd mine. Clear and
Rush'd forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream;
Across the clust'ring heads mine eyes did
By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet.
Then you, the melody, the summer heat,
Mingled in all my blood and made it wine.
Straight I forgot the world's great woe and mine;
My spirit's murky lead grew molten fire;
Despair itself was rapture. Ever higher,
Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain;
Then sudden fell; then all was still again,
And I sank back, quivering as one in pain.
Brief was the pause; then, 'mid a hush profound,
Slow on the waiting air swell'd forth a
So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath;
A measur'd, mystic melody of death.
Then back you lean'd your head, and I could
The upward outline of your perfect throat;
And ever, as the music smote the air,
Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair.
And in that wondrous moment seem'd to
My life's great woe, and grow an empty
Which had not been, nor was not. And I
Not which was sound, and which,
O Love, was you.
