Poem: [Greek Title]

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault

was, had I not been made of common clay

I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed

yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had

struck a better, clearer song,

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled

with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the

kisses that but made them bleed,

You had walked with Bice and the angels on

that verdant and enamelled mead.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址I had trod the road which Dante treading saw

the suns of seven circles shine,

Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,

as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned

me, who am crownless now and without name,

And some orient dawn had found me kneeling

上海龙凤shlf最新地址on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the

oldest bard is as the young,

And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the

lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out

the poppy-seeded wine,

上海龙凤shlf最新地址With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,

clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush

上海龙凤shlf最新地址the burnished bosom of the dove,

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Two young lovers lying in an orchard would

have read the story of our love.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Would have read the legend of my passion,

known the bitter secret of my heart,

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as

we two are fated now to part.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by

the cankerworm of truth,

上海龙凤shlf最新地址And no hand can gather up the fallen withered

petals of the rose of youth.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Yet I am not sorry that I loved you - ah! what

else had I a boy to do, -

上海龙凤shlf最新地址For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the

silent-footed years pursue.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and

when once the storm of youth is past,

Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death

the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for

上海龙凤shlf最新地址the blindworm battens on the root,

And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of

Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God's

own mother was less dear to me,

And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an

argent lily from the sea.

上海龙凤shlf最新地址I have made my choice, have lived my poems,

and, though youth is gone in wasted days,

I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better

than the poet's crown of bays.