Poem – To E 

The mountains in fantastic lines
Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines

Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines

The lake gleams blue.
We three were here, three years gone by;

Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,

You, stepped in learned lore, and I,

A poet too.
Our Poet brought us books and flowers,

He read us Faust; he talked for hours

Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),

Beneath the trees:
And do you mind that sunny day,

When he, as on the sward he lay,

Told of Lassalle who bore away

The false Louise?
Thrice-favoured bard! to him alone

That green and snug retreat was shown,

Where to the vulgar herd unknown,

Our pens we plied.
(For, in those distant days, it seems,

We cherished sundry idle dreams,

And with our flowing foolscap reams

The Fates defied.)
And after, when the day was gone,

And the hushed, silver night came on,

He showed us where the glow-worm shone;–

We stooped to see.
There, too, by yonder moon we swore

Platonic friendship o’er and o’er;

No folk, we deemed, had been before

So wise and free.

And do I sigh or smile to-day?

Dead love or dead ambition, say,

Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh

Platonic friends.
On you the sun is shining free;

Our Poet sleeps in Italy,

Beneath an alien sod; on me

The cloud descends. 

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