Beneath Lethe's Tide

 

Fill for me a brimming bowl, and in it let me drown my soul:

Nay, let some draught of vintage rare, with Lethean taste, all thoughts impair.

For I wish not for Cupid's fire, nor his arrows, nor his lyre,

But crave a potion, deep and wide, as that which flowed 'neath Lethe's tide.

 

Behold the empty vessel on the board, its silent hush awaiting night’s accord.

A moon of sorrow spreads its beams, conjures phantoms, wakes old dreams—

A cruel waltz in silver’d night, a phantom lost to even light.

 

Ah! The form most fair, but fleeting! A whisper soft, December greeting,

Etched in night's forgiving kill, a shadowed breath 'neath wind’s still.

 

Alas, my heart doth know no ease, her brightness brings nor balm, nor peace,

The gleaming eyes and bosom’s grace, turn well-lit world to hollow space.

 

No joy can books and muses give, in vain I seek their light to live.

Had she but known, and with sweet smile, unbound the chains of love’s beguile,

The tender sweetness of my grief, would flow in sorrow...