In the cauldron of the cliffs
Lies the deep and inky lake.
And from heaven the solemn stars
Peer upon us. Night and stillness.
Night and stillness. Beat of oars.
Like a rippling mystery
Swims our boat. The nieces twain
Serve in place of ferrymen.
Swift and blithe they row. Their arms
Sometimes shine from out the night,
And on their white skins the stars
Gleam and on large eyes of blue.
At my side Lascaro sits
Pale and mute as is his wont,
And I shudder at the thought:
Is Lascaro really dead?
Or perchance 'tis I am dead?
I, perchance, am drifting down
With these spectral passengers
To the icy realm of shades?
Can this lake be Styx's dark,
Sullen flood? Hath Proserpine,
In the absence of her Charon
Sent her maids to fetch me down?
Nay, not yet my days are done!
Unextinguished in my soul
Still the living flame of life,
Leaps and blazes, glows and sings.
And these girls who swing their oars
Merrily, and splash me too,
Laugh and grin with mischief rare
As the drops upon me flash.
Ah, these wenches fresh and strong,
Surely they could never be
Ghostly hell-cats, nor the maids
Of the dark queen Proserpine.
So that I might be assured
Of the girls' reality,
And unto myself might prove
My own honest flesh and blood,--
On their rosy dimples I
Swiftly pressed my eager lips,
And to this conclusion came:
Lo, I kiss; therefore I live!
When we reached the shore, again
Did I kiss these bonny maids,--
Kisses were the only coin
Which in payment they would take.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]