THE UNFORGIVEN

by: Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1906)

ear my bed, there, hangs the picture jewels could not buy from me:

'Tis a Siren, a brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery,

Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of the sea.




In the east, the rose of morning as if 't would blossom soon,

But it never, never blossoms, in this picture; and the moon

Never ceases to be crescent, and the June is always June.




And the heavy-branched banana never yields its creamy fruit;

In the citron-trees are nightingales forever stricken mute;

And the Siren sits, her fingers on the pulses of the lute.




In the hushes of the midnight, when the heliotropes grow strong

With the dampness, I hear music -- hear a quiet, plaintive song--

A most sad, melodious utterance, as of some immortal wrong--




Like the pleading, oft repeated, of a Soul that pleads in vain,

Of a damnéd Soul repentant, that would fain be pure again!--

And I lie awake and listen to the music of her pain.




And whence comes this mournful music?--whence, unless it chance to be

From the Siren, the brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery,

Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea.

• Pauline Pavlovna - Complete text of the play by Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
• Thomas Bailey Aldrich: Bibliography - A bibliography of Aldrich's poetic, prose, and dramatic works; includes a list of critical resources.
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