The Lost Melody

O poet whom his own melodies defy,
and the resonant string... even the string —

The dust does not know his ruins;
their yesterday has clouded over, and the trace is lost.

His evening companions have scattered from his circle,
and bands have waved the thorns at him.

Upon the remnants of his days his dreams
were lost, and fate turned back from him.

Illusion has wrapped him round: no joyous
flutter for his awaited morrow.

His anguish weeps for him wherever he rises,
and the resting place recoils wherever he settles.

His melodies and love disown him,
and the moon drives the lights away from him.

How many a melody rose from his lute —
and the lute is shattered, and the string gone dry.