The Longing of Circe

THE rapid years drag by, and bring not here
The man for whom I wait;
All things pall on me ; in my heart grows fear
Lest I may miss my fate.

I weary of the heavy wealth and ease
Which all my isle enfold,
The fountain’s sleepy plash, the changeless breeze
That bears nor heat nor cold.

With dull, unvaried mien my maids and I
Glide through our household tasks ;
Gather strange herbs, weave purple tapestry,
Distil, in magic flasks.

Most weary am I of these men who yield
So swiftly to my spell, —
The beastly rout now wandering afield
With grunt and snarl and yell.

Ah, when, in place of tigers and of swine,
Shall he confront me whom
My song cannot enslave, nor that bright wine
Where rank enchantments fume ?

Then with what utter gladness will I cast
My sorceries away,
And kneel to him, my lord revealed at last,
And serve him night and day !

Cameron Mann.