by: Thomas Bailey Aldrich
MORE POEMS BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH
- 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.