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On the Death of Swinburne
He trod the earth but yesterday, And now he treads the stars.He left us in the April timeHe praised so often in his rhyme, He left the singing and the lyre and went his way. He drew new music from our tongue, A music subtly wrought,And moulded words to his desire,As wind doth mould a wave of fire； From strangely fashioned harps1 slow golden tones he wrung2. I think the singing understands That he who sang is still,And Iseult cries that he is dead, ——Does not Dolores bow her head And Fragoletta weep and wring3 her little hands？ New singing now the singer hears To lyre and lute4 and harp；Catullus waits to welcome him,And thro' the twilight5 sweet and dim, Sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears. 点击  收听单词发音
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