My Love, my Love, it was a day in June, A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon; And all the eager people thronging came To that great hall, drawn by the magic name Of one, a high magician, who can raise The spirits of the past and future days, And draw the dreams from out the secret breast, Giving them life and shape. I, with the rest, Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound; And as my aimless glances wandered round, Far off, across the hush’d, expectant throng, I saw your face that fac’d mine. Clear and strong Rush’d forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream; Across the clust’ring heads mine eyes did seem By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet. Then you, the melody, the summer heat, Mingled in all my blood and made it wine. Straight I forgot the world’s great woe and mine; My spirit’s murky lead grew molten fire; Despair itself was rapture. Ever higher, Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain; Then sudden fell; then all was still again, And I sank back, quivering as one in pain. Brief was the pause; then, ’mid a hush profound, Slow on the waiting air swell’d forth a sound So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath; A measur’d, mystic melody of death. Then back you lean’d your head, and I could note The upward outline of your perfect throat; And ever, as the music smote the air, Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair. And in that wondrous moment seem’d to fade My life’s great woe, and grow an empty shade Which had not been, nor was not. And I knew Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you. _To Sylvia._ [Illustration: text decoration] [Illustration: musical notation] “O Love, lean thou thy cheek to mine, And let the tears together flow”-- Such was the song you sang to me Once, long ago. Such was the song you sang; and yet (O be not wroth!) I scarcely knew What sounds flow’d forth; I only felt That you were you. I scarcely knew your hair was gold, Nor of the heavens’ own blue your eyes. Sylvia and song, divinely mixt, Made Paradise. These things I scarcely knew; to-day, When love is lost and hope is fled, The song you sang so long ago Rings in my head. Clear comes each note and true; to-day, As in a picture I behold Your turn’d-up chin, and small, sweet head Misty with gold. I see how your dear eyes grew deep, How your lithe body thrilled and swayed, And how were whiter than the keys Your hands that played....