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. |
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