Immortal

IN a far-gone, mystic summer,Lit by sun and lulled by rain,When the new moons rose in wonderAnd the old moons died in pain—

On the clouds a dreaming painterHung a picture of his bride,And a Poet sang his raptureTo the ebbing of the tide;

But, alas! the years have vanishedIn the sunlight and the rain;Still the new moons glow in wonder,Still the old moons die in pain.

For the Painter I have vainlySearched the halls of earthly pride;But his picture, smiling downward,Tells the love for which he died.

And the Poet? Never waters,Ebb or flood, his fate reveal;But his rapture, flaming upward,Is the same that I can feel.