Soft from the linden's bough,
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,
Eve's dove laments her now:
"Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?"
That yearning in his voice
Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale:
As other birds rejoice
He sang, a brother to the nightingale.
By twilight on her breast
He saw the flower sleep, the star awake;
And calling her from rest,
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
And then the Tempter's breath,
The sword of exile and the mortal chain--
The heritage of death
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain ...
In Eden desolate
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon,
As now, reiterate;
"Ah gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?"
_George Sterling_