Apologia

O gentlest love, I have not played For you upon the lute of jade; Nor on that fabulous bassoon Wrought from the horns of minotaurs, And set with subtly changing spars And lucid metals of the moon— The thing my childish fingers found Cast on a god-frequented ground, And unto whose compelling note Sprang the brown dryad from her tree, And palest vampires came to me With limbs more sweet than trodden lote. I have not made such melodies As call the philtered sorceries: But I will weave, some autumn day, A song to make your beauty mine— Wrought not with mystical design And chords of passionate dismay. For I will tell, with wonted words, A tale of two that autumn birds Had led beneath oblivious skies, Who plucked the wilding asters rare, And peered from grasses like your hair To distance blue as your blue eyes.