"It was not song that taught her love,
But it was love that taught her song."
WEET Lesbian, though two thousand years
of time
Have swept the bosom of thy briny grave,
Still, as we hear the chime of convent bell
Stealing at evening o'er the moonlit sea,
And the rich odors that the morning flung
To the wild zephyrs, seaward wandering,
Come fainting back upon the land-breeze, then
Float there not gentle memories of thee
In every sad, low plash of waves that bathe
The foot of Leucate?
Of gushing winds, around the tall white rocks
We hear thy sigh. In the long grass that clings
Tight to the storm-worn crevice-in the play
Of tangled sea-weed tossing on the foam,
Then streaming banner-like with the retreat
Of baffled billows-see we thy dark locks,
Dishevelled by the storms that swept thy soul.
In the blue mirror of the Ægean, still
Gazing on heaven, and tinted with its hue,
Yet ever restless, and distorting all