Á Clyméne
Arthur Symons
1865 to 1945
MYSTICAL strains unheard,
A song without a word,
Dearest, because thine eyes.
Pale as the skies,
Because thy voice, remote
As the far clouds that float
Veiling for me the whole
Heaven of the soul,
Because the stately scent
Of thy swan’s whiteness, blent
With the white lily’s bloom
Of thy perfume,
Ah! because thy dear love,
The music breathed above
By angels halo-crowned,
Odour and sound,
Hath, in my subtle heart,
With some mysterious art
Transposed thy harmony,
So let it be!
Arthur Symons's Á Clyméne
I am busy working to bring Arthur Symons's "Á Clyméne" to life through some unique musical arrangements and will have a full analysis of the poem here for you later.
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