Fuscus, whoso to good inclines–
And is a faultless liver–
Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear,
Nor poison-arrowed quiver.
Ay, though through desert wastes he roams,
Or scales the rugged mountains,
Or rests beside the murmuring tide
Of weird Hydaspan fountains!
Lo, on a time, I gayly paced
The Sabine confines shady,
And sung in glee of Lalage,
My own and dearest lady.
And, as I sung, a monster wolf
Slunk through the thicket from me—
But for that song, as I strolled along
He would have overcome me!
Set me amid those poison mists
Which no fair gale dispelleth,
Or in the plains where silence reigns
And no thing human dwelleth;
Still shall I love my Lalage–
Still sing her tender graces;
And, while I sing my theme shall bring
Heaven to those desert places!
(Eugene Field)
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Based on Topics: Time Poems, Heaven Poems, Place Poems, Fear PoemsBased on Keywords: inclines, moorish, sabine, lalage, fuscus, dispelleth, poison-arrowed, hydaspan