66 
TELEPATHY 
 
 
The sobs, the sighs, the throbs, the cries 
 Of love are nothing to me. 
My lady’s magic madness flies 
 Like poison through and through me !   
 
Yea, love ;  my echo is as loud 
As all the cries of all the crowd. 
 
 
The shaft of love she shot in May 
 Still rankles in September ;   
The flames in June that died away 
 Have yet a lively ember. 
I force myself to dream all day :   
 Night wakes me—I remember. 
 
Yea ;  in the night thou lackest me. 
And I ?  Ah surely I lack thee !   
 
 
I must remember how we stood 
 And let mad Paris pass us 
(Holding one moment to be good, 
 For all the years surpass us.) 
And touched in our beatitude 
 The peak of Mount Parnassus. 
 
Yea ;  we did well to break the bars, 
And dwell one moment with the stars !   
 
 
We played the ancient Comedy 
 That Pan taught to the Satyrs.