À CLYMÈNE.

By Arthur Symons

MYSTICAL strains unheard,

A song without a word,

Dearest, because thine eyes.

Pale as the skies,

Because thy voice, remote

As the far clouds that float

Veiling for me the whole

Heaven of the soul,

Because the stately scent

Of thy swan's whiteness, blent

With the white lily's bloom

Of thy perfume,

Ah! because thy dear love,

The music breathed above

By angels halo-crowned,

Odour and sound,

Hath, in my subtle heart,

With some mysterious art

Transposed thy harmony,

So let it be!