To E.

The mountains in fantastic lines Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines The lake gleams blue. We three were here, three years gone by; Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye, You, stepped in learned lore, and I, A poet too. Our Poet brought us books and flowers, He read us Faust; he talked for hours Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer's), Beneath the trees: And do you mind that sunny day, When he, as on the sward he lay, Told of Lassalle who bore away The false Louise? Thrice-favoured bard! to him alone That green and snug retreat was shown, Where to the vulgar herd unknown, Our pens we plied. (For, in those distant days, it seems, We cherished sundry idle dreams, And with our flowing foolscap reams The Fates defied.) And after, when the day was gone, And the hushed, silver night came on, He showed us where the glow-worm shone;-- We stooped to see. There, too, by yonder moon we swore Platonic friendship o'er and o'er; No folk, we deemed, had been before So wise and free. * * * * * * * And do I sigh or smile to-day? Dead love or dead ambition, say, Which mourn we most? Not much we weigh Platonic friends. On you the sun is shining free; Our Poet sleeps in Italy, Beneath an alien sod; on me The cloud descends.