DEDICATION

Oft has the Old World traveler seen, In ashes of Pompeii pressed, Immortal, beautiful, serene, A maiden’s shoulder and young breast. Yet whoso sees aye walks apart, At footfall of the passer-by; With something welling in his heart, Because she too, she too, should die; And oft thereafter, that same day, As people fresh from dreams will do, In dream-continuance, he will say, “The others—nay, but not she too!” Oh, if those hostile tongues of fire A tale so tender-true might bring, May not perchance a loving lyre Likewise its dear remembrance sing? And if the constant lava hold The body’s fairness—ah, no less These singing leaves would fain unfold To tell the spirit’s loveliness!