To Walter Alison Phillips

Ten years ago I heard; ten, have I loved; Thine haunting voice borne over the waste sea. Was it thy melancholy spirit moved Mine, with those gray dreams, that invested thee? Or was it, that thy beauty first reproved The imperfect fancies, that looked fair to me?

Thou hast both secrets: for to thee are known The fatal sorrows binding life and death: And thou hast found, on winds of passage blown, That music, which is sorrow's perfect breath: So, all thy beauty takes a solemn tone, And art, is all thy melancholy saith.

Now therefore is thy voice abroad for me, When through dark woodlands murmuring sounds make way: Thy voice, and voices of the sounding sea, Stir in the branches, as none other may: All pensive loneliness is full of thee, And each mysterious, each autumnal day.

Hesperian soul! Well hadst thou in the West Thine hermitage and meditative place: In mild, retiring fields thou wast at rest, Calmed by old winds, touched with aerial grace: Fields, whence old magic simples filled thy breast, And unforgotten fragrance balmed thy face.