NEAR my bed, there, hangs the picture jewels could not buy from me: 'T is a Siren, a brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery, Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea. In the east, the rose of morning seems as if 't would blossom soon, But it never, never blossoms, in this picture; and the moon Never ceases to be crescent, and the June is always June. And the heavy-branched banana never yields its creamy fruit; In the citron-trees are nightingales forever stricken mute; And the Siren sits, her fingers on the pulses of the lute. In the hushes of the midnight, when the heliotropes grow strong With the dampness, I hear music -- hear a quiet, plaintive song -- A most sad, melodious utterance, as of some immortal wrong -- Like the pleading, oft repeated, of a Soul that pleads in vain, Of a damned Soul repentant, that would fain be pure again!-- And I lie awake and listen to the music of her pain. And whence comes this mournful music? -- whence, unless it chance to be From the Siren, the brown Siren, in her sea-weed drapery, Playing on a lute of amber, by the margin of a sea. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE HILL ABOVE THE MINE by MALCOLM COWLEY MARJORIE'S WOOING by EMMA LAZARUS |