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Empress
of Art
Empress of Art, for thee I
twine
This wreath with all too
slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each
halting line,
And for the deed accept the
will!
O day of tears! Whence
comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold
river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as
thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here,
yet heard above?
And still it lives, that
keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and
trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of
fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for
thee, for thee alone!
But all is lost: that
mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled,
piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are
fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but
not my love for thee!"
A sadder vision yet: thine
aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks
with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt
Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that
hast forgot to smile?
Nay, get thee hence! Leave
all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of
thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the
appointed days,
And weep away the
leaden-footed hours.
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