Be Still. The Hanging Gardens were a Dream

Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream

That over Persian roses flew to kiss

The curlèd lashes of Semiramis.

Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.

Provence and Troubadour are merest lies

The glorious hair of Venice was a beam

Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem,

The world is very old and nothing is.

Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,

Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,

But patter in the darkness of thy heart.

Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl

Blind with the light of life thou ’ldst not forsake,

And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.