No man he knew, three days he lay and raved, And cried for death, until a lethargy Fell on him, and his fellows thought him saved; But on the third night he awoke to die; And at Byzantium doth his body lie Between two blossoming pomegranate trees, Within the churchyard of the Genoese. * * * * * A moment's silence as his tale had end, And then the wind of that June night did blend Their varied voices, as of that and this They fell to talk: of those fair islands' bliss They knew in other days, of hope they had To live there long an easy life and glad, With nought to vex them; and the younger men Began to nourish strange dreams even then Of sailing east, as these had once sailed west; Because the story of that luckless quest With hope, not fear, had filled their joyous hearts And made them dream of new and noble parts That they might act; of raising up the name Their fathers bore, and winning boundless fame. These too with little patience seemed to hear, That story end with shame and grief and fear; A little thing the man had had to do, They said, if longing burned within him so. But at their words the older men must bow Their heads, and, smiling, somewhat thoughtful grow, Remembering well how fear in days gone by Had dealt with them, and poisoned wretchedly Good days, good deeds, and longings for all good: Yet on the evil times they would not brood, But sighing, strove to raise the weight of years, And no more memory of their hopes and fears They nourished, but such gentle thoughts as fed The pensiveness which that sweet season bred. JULY. Fair was the morn to-day, the blossom's scent Floated across the fresh grass, and the bees With low vexed song from rose to lily went, A gentle wind was in the heavy trees, And thine eyes shone with joyous memories; Fair was the early morn, and fair wert thou, And I was happy--Ah, be happy now! Peace and content without us, love within That hour there was, now thunder and wild rain, Have wrapped the cowering world, and foolish sin, And nameless pride, have made us wise in vain; Ah, love! although the morn shall come again, And on new rose-buds the new sun shall smile, Can we regain what we have lost meanwhile? E'en now the west grows clear of storm and threat, But midst the lightning did the fair sun die-- --Ah, he shall rise again for ages yet, He cannot waste his life--but thou and I-- Who knows if next morn this felicity My lips may feel, or if thou still shalt live This seal of love renewed once more to give? * * * * *