THE AEOLIAN HARP

Into my wildly whispering heart,

His song the warm sirocco sings,

Whirring, whirring —

And all the artifice of mine art

Comes on the wind by the wind to part,

Part from my whirring strings —

Sometimes I sing a wild, weird tale

That like a wandering phantom wings

Whirring, whirring —

And sometimes only a lonely wail

Wells as an echo all wildly frail,

Frail as my whirring sings —

My notes are like the willow-wands

That lightly wave before, behind.—

Whirring, whirring —

Each whispering harp-string ever responds,

Slave of the breeze in his servile bonds,

Slave of the whirring wind —

Soft the sirocco sighs his tune,

And a waning, funeral chant it wings —

Whirring, whirring —

The song shall die as joys die — soon,

Whelming its melody into a swoon,

Swoon of the whirring strings —