A Willow-Tree

PALE sorrower, in whose listless grace one sees
Not any shadow of joy while summer beams,
Looking, as all your foliage earthward streams,
The inconsolable Niobe of trees,
For me, if some appropriate mood shall please
To have led me where your leafy languor gleams,
Then through my heart, a band of glimmering dreams,
Float these, or lovelier memories than these:
A white shape, framed in jealous passion’s gloom,
Meek Desdemona doth her sad song raise;
Or mad Ophelia, just before her doom,
Hangs on your treacherous branch her wildwood sprays;
Or by the Arcadian brooks, whose hanks you plume,
The dead Greek shepherds flute mellifluous lays!
Edgar Fawcett.