But in heaven thou canst not taste the anguish of earth."
I lie entranced within a mystic Eden,
-Mid cooling shadows cast by bending gladden-
Deep in the sacred mountain's hollow hidden,
And by my side reclines a little maiden
Who sings to me of Dole.
Around me murmured notes of mellow fountains
That sprinkle smiling tears on myriad mosses,
On myriad buds that deck the sacred mountains,
And now a cloud the azure slowly crosses
And breathes to me of Dole.
And birds emerge from distant unknown thickets,
And waft their lambent opalescent shadows
Upon the grass (where sing the soft-toned crickets),
Th whirl away-back to the distant meadows,
And call to me of Dole.
And lilies rise from 'mid the golden grasses,
And bow their virgin heads, and whisper lowly
Of Dole-to sink again among the masses,
And pallid shapes arise and vanish slowly,
And sing to me of Dole.
And then my heart, with curious yearning laden,
-My heart that unto every rapture reaches-
Awakens from its dream: and to the maiden,
In accents soft and faltered, it beseeches
" O tell me what is Dole?"
She answers not, but shakes her fragrant tresses,
Her smiling eyes through drooping lashes glister,
She casts a look which every sense caresses:
The while I gently urge again " My sister,
O! tell me what is Dole?"
She looks away- her child like vision follows
Afar, aloft within the vernal heaven,
A shadowy swarm of softly singing swallows,
-Then simply breathes in accents calm and even;
" I know not what is Dole."
A flood of wonderment within me falters;
I muster angels and the shining devas;
I weave them garlands for their golden altars;
I pray them "Tell me of these strange Deceivers
Who speak to me of Dole."
They swiftly come-their faces bathed in glory,
And through their radiance rippling gentle laughter,
As I unfold to them my strange short story-
And all their answer is, "Perchance Hereafter
Thy heart shall learn of Dole...
And then a new delight within me rises,
As I re-seek the shades of bending gladden;
A sense of something that my soul surprises
Comes 0'er me, and I bid again my maiden
" O sing to me of Dole."
She swiftly sings-and through me thrills a rapture;
A joy of things unkenned, remote and lonely,
A something even the soul can never capture
And I beseech her " Child, from now on, only
Sing to me of Dole."
Cyril Scott
