DE LUNATICO.


The squadrons of the sun still hold
The western hills, their armor glances,
Their crimson banners wide unfold,
Low-levelled lie their golden lances.
The shadows lurk along the shore,
Where, as our row-boat lightly passes,
The ripples startled by our oar,
Hide murmuring 'neath the hanging grasses.

Your eyes are downcast, for the light
Is lingering on your lids--forgetting
How late it is--for one last sight
Of you the sun delays his setting.
One hand droops idly from the boat,
And round the white and swaying fingers,
Like half-blown lilies gone afloat,
The amorous water, toying, lingers.

I see you smile behind your book,
Your gentle eyes concealing, under
Their drooping lids a laughing look
That's partly fun, and partly wonder
That I, a man of presence grave,
Who fight for bread 'neath Themis' banner
Should all at once begin to rave
In this--I trust--Aldrichian manner.