Perchance all lingered in the Roman streets
To catch first tidings from the Oracles.
The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades,
Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and high
A hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky,
And kept my doves from cooing at my feet.
My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds,
Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath'd
Around it as I sang--but with that wail
Dying across the vines and purple slopes,
And breaking on its strings, I did not care
To waken music, nor in truth could force
My voice or fingers to it, so I stray'd
Where hangs thy best loved armour on the wall,
And pleased myself by filling it with thee!
'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome,
Say all the armourers; all Rome and I
Know _thee_, the lordliest bearer of a sword.
Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lost
From out the helmet, and a ruby gone
From the short sword hilt--trifles both which can
Be righted by to-morrow's noon--"to-morrow's noon!"
Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voice
When spake I those three words: "to-morrow's noon?"
O, I am full of dreams--methought there was.
"Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine!
If lov'd I dismal thoughts I well could deem
Thou saw'st not the blue of my fond eyes,
But looked between the lips of that dread pit--
O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the air
With chills of death--we'll not speak of it, Curtius.
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