Dost thou remember, in that Isle
Of our own Sea where thou and I
Lingered so long, so happy a while,
Till all the summer flowers went by--
How gay it was when sunset brought
To the cool Well our favorite maids--
Some we had won, and some we sought--
To dance within the fragrant shades,
And till the stars went down attune
Their Fountain Hymns[3] to the young moon?
That time, too--oh, 'tis like a dream--
When from Scamander's holy tide
I sprung as Genius of the Stream,
And bore away that blooming bride,
Who thither came, to yield her charms
(As Phrygian maids are wont ere wed)
Into the cold Scamander's arms,
But met and welcomed mine, instead--
Wondering as on my neck she fell,
How river-gods could love so well!
Who would have thought that he who roved
Like the first bees of summer then,
Rifling each sweet nor ever loved
But the free hearts that loved again,
Readily as the reed replies
To the least breath that round it sighs--
Is the same dreamer who last night
Stood awed and breathless at the sight
Of one Egyptian girl; and now
Wanders among these tombs with brow
Pale, watchful, sad, as tho' he just,
Himself, had risen from out their dust!
Yet so it is--and the same thirst
For something high and pure, above
This withering world, which from the first
Made me drink deep of woman's love--
As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here--
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever naught but death can slake.
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