III. POSTLUDE

A breath, a glance, a word,--no more, my friend,
This is the sum of what I have to give
Leaving the tale for ever incomplete.
No perfect moment, and no tragic end,
Within your heart those images shall live
And die like footsteps down an empty street.

Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith:
"Spend your souls vigour to the utmost breath
And let the hounds come baying at the death!"

The Moonlight Sonata

My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier
Stands forth into the sea; wave on slow wave
Of shining music, luminous and grave,
Lifting against me, pouring through me, here
Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise
And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white,
So still, so helpless on this fathomless night
Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes.
Deep waves wash you against me; you impart
No comfort to my spirit, give no sign
Your inarticulate lips can taste the brine
Drowning the secret timbers of my heart.

Possession