WHEN in the dance of the Nymphs, in the moonlight so holy assembled,
Yet, though so skill'd, of such transcendent worth,
Wife and children slaughter they;And we allHasten to a certain fall.
Send the knight to prison straight.Oh accursed story, truly!
In the house was going now and comingUp and down the stairs, and doors were creakingBackwards now, now forwards,--footsteps clatter'dYet, as though it were a thing all-living,From my cherish'd hope I could not tear me.
OUR rides in all directions bend,
Anguish before unknown,Thus o'er me steals deep grief.Ah, when I find relief
Trusting in thy spells absurd;Dig no longer fruitlessly.
Long-neck'd flasks I put as dishes
As when first form'd in majesty.
Something 'midst the foliage move;'Tis a mother, with her baby,
For at my lute's soft sighing
* * * * * *
The thing I seek is far;It dwells as high, it gleams as fair