Verses to Craig

By George Sterling

Oh! in the past, when I heard music call,
    Thy voice was in its crying!
Thy beauty, as I watched the sunsets fall,
    Was portion of their dying!

Yet could I know that all things led to thee?
That thou of all wast flower?
That thou wast lily of the days to be,—
    Rose of their hidden bower?

And art thou mortal, of a mortal born?
    For in thy face's lurings
Is loveliness more dear than that of morn
    Or twilights unenduring.

Thou seem'st to draw thy substance from the moon,
    Thy glance from starlight's gleaming,
And this thy breath seems jasmine warm with June,
    In glades where gods lie dreaming.

And in thee meet all ends of strange and fair,
    All grace and life and wonder—
A goddess-girl from lonely islands where
    Unresting billows thunder.

So, tell me thou art Circe come again,
    To grant, on some to-morrow,
All mirth and magic, loneliness and pain,
    All rapture and all sorrow.

Written in Sag Harbor.

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