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--
_October 24 & 25, 1912._