A Fragment

Autumn far off in memory, That saw the crisping myrtles fade ! . . . Eons agone, my tomb was made Beside the moon-constrainèd sea. Ah, wonderful its portals were ! With carven doors of chrysolite And walls of somber syenite They wrought mine olden sepulcher. About the griffin-guarded plinth, White blossoms crowned the scarlet vine, And burning orchids opaline Illumed the palm and terebinth. On friezes of mine ancient fame The cypress wrought its writhen shade, And through the boughs the ocean made Moresques of blue and fretted flame. Poet or prince, I may not know My perished name, nor bring to mind Years that are one with dust and wind, Nor songless love and tongueless woe— Only the tomb they made for me, With carven doors of chrysolite And walls of somber syenite Beside the moon-constrainèd sea.