I sat in the Muses’ Hall at the mid of the day,

And it seemed to grow still, and the people to pass away,

And the chiselled shapes to combine in a haze of sun,

Till beside a Carrara column there gleamed forth One.

She was nor this nor that of those beings divine,

But each and the whole—an essence of all the Nine;

With tentative foot she neared to my halting-place,

A pensive smile on her sweet, small, marvellous face.

“Regarded so long, we render thee sad?” said she.

“Not you,” sighed I, “but my own inconstancy!

I worship each and each; in the morning one,

And then, alas! another at sink of sun.

“To-day my soul clasps Form; but where is my troth

Of yesternight with Tune: can one cleave to both?”

—“Be not perturbed,” said she.  “Though apart in fame,

As I and my sisters are one, those, too, are the same.

—“But my loves go further—to Story, and Dance, and Hymn,

The lover of all in a sun-sweep is fool to whim—

Is swayed like a river-weed as the ripples run!”

—“Nay, wight, thou sway’st not.  These are but phases of one;

“And that one is I; and I am projected from thee,

One that out of thy brain and heart thou causest to be—

Extern to thee nothing.  Grieve not, nor thyself becall,

Woo where thou wilt; and rejoice thou canst love at all!”