Septimontium
In Septimontium ancient days
still whisper down the lanes and ways,
still hint a gleam to eager eye,
the vestige of forgotten years
light-freshened by the tender tears
of passing clouds in rain-washed sky --
but just a touch; tears soon will dry.
On seven mountains vestal flame
once burned, the heart of life and peace,
but even holy flames may cease;
now all is gone save trace and name.
In Septimontium olives grow
by marble pillars long laid low
on which the seagulls stand and cry.
The world is passing; it has passed;
all things must fade and cannot last;
and soon is nothing left but sigh --
and even that trace, too, must die.
Misting Rain
The misting rain is coating sidewalks,
beading hair and dewing faces,
and all through the empty streetways
one gust another swiftly chases.
Down an alley-lane it races!
Fleet of foot, the breezes play.
Perhaps the moon is early-risen,
but none would know; her face is hidden.
Across the dome, the sky is darkness,
and breeze on breeze is tempest-ridden,
like an army hasty-bidden,
turned out in threatening marching dress.
Slough and Storm
With a sloughing of the wind
and a shishing of the rain,
my heart is tumbling over;
shall I see my love again?
As weather when it wuthers,
as wind in gusting bluster,
my heart is pounding thunder;
shall I see my love again?
