Along the garden terrace, under which A purple valley (lighted at its edge By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge Whereunder dropped the chariot), glimmers rich, A quiet company we pace, and wait The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm. So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: Though here and there grey seniors question Time In irritable coughings. With slow foot The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute, Begins among her silent bars to climb. As in and out, in silvery dusk, we tread, I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern My Lady’s heel before me at each turn. Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?
This poem is in the public domain.