I have talked, often it seems,
on thymy cliffs with white-limbed Grecian lads,
and wandered arm in arm with the grey shades
of those old years, in dreams.

And often, it seems to me,
have I splashed in blue Ionian waves, or sat
listening to vague unreal philosophers chat
in marbled sanctity.

And, wearied of those dim shades
of wise men, stolen away and turned my steps
to find a more subtle wisdom on the lips
of laughing Grecian maids.

And once, by some shadowy sea
in the lands of sleep, I saw the Idalian rise
blossom-crowned from the foam, and dim were her eyes
with love's quiet ecstasy.

And the gallows-god has slipped
unremembered into the void as my soul has seen
the loveliness of the Grecian gods, and the queen
of pagan love, rose-lipped.