222 MYSTERIES:
EPILOGUE.
JT ORACE, in the fruitful Sabine country,
Where the wheat and vine are most abundant,
Where the olive ripens in the sunshine,
Where the streams are voiced with Dian’s whispers,
Lived in quiet, with a woman’s passion
To inspire his lute and bring contentment
In the gray still days of early winter.
I, remote from cities, like the poet,
Tune my lesser lyre with other fingers,
Yet am not a whit the less belovéd.
And.to me the stars are never silent,
Nor do sea and storm deny their music,
Nor do flower and breeze refuse their kisses:
So my soul is flooded with their magic;
So my love completes the joy of living.
I am like the sun, to whom there gather
All the brightest molten seas of glory,
All the isles and continents of starland.
Shall I never, like the sun, be gladdened,
Filled with their life, fructified, and answer
Rays of gold to bid the gray horizon
Melt, recede, and brighten into azure,
Sing as Horace sang, and flood the ocean