THE hand of carnival was at my door,
I listened to its knocking, and sped down:
Faith was forgotten, Duty led no more:
I heard a wonton revelry in the town;
BELOW, the street was hoarse with cries,
With groan of carts and scuffling feet,
With laughter worse than blasphemies,
Was choked with dust and blind with heat,
ASK not my pardon! For if one hath need
Once to forgive the god that he hath raised,
No further creed
Can that god give; but 'neath the soul who praised
I am one of the wind's stories,
I am a fancy of the rain,-
A memory of the high noon's glories,
IN days of ancient history
Who were you? Tell me if you know.
Between your kisses answer me
Do you remember, Leda?
There are those who love, to whom Love brings
Great gladness: such things have not I.
When to your virgin heart, unstirred, ungiven,
Upon the quiet mountainside untrod,
FAREWELL is said! Yea, but I cannot take
All that my Greeting gave.
In you hath Hope her doom and Joy her grave;
Still you go crowned with old imaginings,
Chained to the years by the measureless wrong of man,
Here I hang, here I suffer, here I cry,
Men wondered why I loved you, and none guessed
How sweet your slow, divine stupidity,
Your look of earth, your sense of drowsy rest,