ORPHEUS IN THRACE.
A GHOST Of memory's ghosts
He comes again to willows, meads, To dusky waters, dusky reeds And painted lilies.
Fancy's poor wailing fool, He mumbles still to clouds and trees Of lovely lost Eurydices By pool and river.
Faint now are childhood's dreams, The frplie fauns and water gnomes : Fainter the mermaids' silver combs And sunflower tresses.
No satyrs roam the woods These wild and starless evenings : No nymph or blue-haired siren sings Still elfin music.
Cold are the crystal caves Of memory the sorceress, All, all the spells of loveliness Vain now, forgotten.
F. W. BATESOM