That, that was not Apollo, not the god. This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed A moment. And though fair yon river move, She, all the way, from disenchanted fount To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains Disconsolate, long since adventure fled; And now although the inviting river flows, And every poplared cape, and every bend Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed; Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more; And O, long since the golden groves are dead The faery cities vanished from the land! XVI TO W.E. HENLEY The year runs through her phases; rain and sun, Spring-time and summer pass; winter succeeds; But one pale season rules the house of death. Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep Toss gaping on the pillows. But O thou! Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring The swallows follow over land and sea. Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home! Youth, love, and roses blossom; the gaunt ward Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond Of mountains. Small the pipe; but O! do thou, Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, These dying, sound the triumph over death. Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy Unknown before, in dying; for each knows A hero dies with him--though unfulfilled, Yet conquering truly--and not dies in vain. So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again-- O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard And the deliverer, touch the stops again! XVII HENRY JAMES Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain. Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain The presences that now together throng Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song, As with the air of life, the breath of talk? Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk Behind their jocund maker; and we see Slighted _De Mauves_, and that far different she, _Gressie_, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast _Daisy_ and _Barb_ and _Chancellor_ (she not least!) With all their silken, all their airy kin, Do like unbidden angels enter in. But he, attended by these shining names, Comes (best of all) himself--our welcome James. XVIII THE MIRROR SPEAKS