Capitolo 92
friend of his--we cried for the Collector.
We would have buried him to us in time in soft summer sweet arbute under
trees, near the beach of some Italian and murmuring sea. The wind of the west
you/he/she should ever talk to low voice his/her pain on his/her grave for:--
"You who didst they arouse from his to pass him summer-dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he placed
You cradle from the spool of his/her crystalline brooks,
Nearby to an island of pumice in the bay of Baiae,
And saw in sleep the old buildings and towers
Waving among the day of intenser of the wave,
Excessively grown entirely with blue musk and flowers."
Girls from the blue eyes have tied his/her dear head with garlands of the loving one
rosemary. The echoes of sea-caverns would have sung psalms requiem up to that
time should be anybody more. Embalmed in obscurity the nightingale
every night for never verses before his/her soul in profuse efforts of
inconsolable ecstasy; from day the dove should complain about himself/herself/themselves in the vibration
you shade until the sun you/he/she should stop rolling on his/her ardent run:--
"Where I cross groves deep and tall,
You play far the the billow,
Where the first violets die the willow under.
There, through the day in summer,
Fresh brooks are laving;
There, while the hesitation of storms,
Scarce it is branches rippling;
There thies remain should'st you take,
Never separated for,
Anymore to wake up: never, Or never!"
With hand of tender we would have traced on his/her urn commemorative some
valediction--not without the hope--of love and the friendship.
It was otherwise. He was buried during a dust-storm in a disgusting
Indian cemetery. Any friend state next to the grave. A hard priest
spotted reluctantly a shortened service: and people talked to low voice that
it was not well with the soul of the Collector. He is now forgotten.
But, the dear friend, memory of thy ever blooms in my heart for, happy thy
still gives back it will play in my ear:--