The purple priesthood of the evening waits
With golden pomp within the templed skies;
There is a harp of worship at the gates
Of heaven and earth that bids the soul arise.—
With columned cliffs and long
Vales, music breathes among,
Here is the land of Song.
With golden pomp within the templed skies;
There is a harp of worship at the gates
Of heaven and earth that bids the soul arise.—
With columned cliffs and long
Vales, music breathes among,
Here is the land of Song.
IV
LIFE’S SEASONS
I
When all the world was May-day,
And all the skies were blue,
Young innocence made play-day
Among the buds and dew;
Then all of life was May-day
And clouds were none or few.
And all the skies were blue,
Young innocence made play-day
Among the buds and dew;
Then all of life was May-day
And clouds were none or few.
II
When all the world was Summer,
And morn shone overhead,
Love was the sweet new-comer
Who led youth forth to wed;
Then all of life was Summer,
And clouds were gold and red.
And morn shone overhead,
Love was the sweet new-comer
Who led youth forth to wed;
Then all of life was Summer,
And clouds were gold and red.
III
IV
THE LIGHT AND LARK
Hangs, stormed with stars, the night,
Deep over deep;
Each star a point of light
In God’s high keep.
Deep over deep;
Each star a point of light
In God’s high keep.
In God’s?—Perhaps.—Of such
We can not tell,
Who shrink—and is it much?—
To say farewell.
We can not tell,
Who shrink—and is it much?—
To say farewell.
There ’tis the dawn and lark:
Here ’tis the wail,
Sobbed through the ceaseless dark,
O’ the nightingale.
Here ’tis the wail,
Sobbed through the ceaseless dark,
O’ the nightingale.
God gives us life to keep.—
And what hath life?—
Love, faith, and care, and sleep,
Where dreams are rife.
And what hath life?—
Love, faith, and care, and sleep,
Where dreams are rife.
Death’s sleep! whose shadows start
The tears in eyes
Of Love, who breaks his heart,
Despairs and dies.
The tears in eyes
Of Love, who breaks his heart,
Despairs and dies.
And faith is never given
Without some care,
Perhaps that leads to Heaven
By ways of prayer.
Without some care,
Perhaps that leads to Heaven
By ways of prayer.
THE JESSAMINE AND THE MORNING-GLORY
I
With his herald torch in the van of day
The star of the morning smiled;
And the streaks in the east were rosy gray,
And the earth lay undefiled,
When a morning-glory’s spiral bud,
As pink as a shell and slim,
Unbound the sark of her maidenhood,
And flashed on the dawning dim:
Royal she seemed, to the purple born,
And vain of her beauty and proud to scorn.
The star of the morning smiled;
And the streaks in the east were rosy gray,
And the earth lay undefiled,
When a morning-glory’s spiral bud,
As pink as a shell and slim,
Unbound the sark of her maidenhood,
And flashed on the dawning dim:
Royal she seemed, to the purple born,
And vain of her beauty and proud to scorn.
II
And she shook her locks at the morning-star,
And her raiment fluttered wide;
Then smiled above at his scimitar,
And gazed around in pride:
The pomegranate near, with its crown of flame,
And the gemmed geraniums nigh,
All bowed their heads at her whispered name,
As she throned herself on high;
While the fuchsia, under her silvery hood,
Shrunk with a face like a bead of blood.
And her raiment fluttered wide;
Then smiled above at his scimitar,
And gazed around in pride:
The pomegranate near, with its crown of flame,
And the gemmed geraniums nigh,
All bowed their heads at her whispered name,
As she throned herself on high;
While the fuchsia, under her silvery hood,
Shrunk with a face like a bead of blood.
III
All knew that this child of the morning light
Was queen of the morn and them;
That the morning-star, in his beams of white,
Was her prince in a diadem:
’Twas he who had given those gems that flash
And jewel the front of her smock;
From his lordly fingers of light did dash
Down pearls where she stooped to mock
A jessamine, pale, in the garden’s gloom,
All wan of face, but of sweet perfume.
Was queen of the morn and them;
That the morning-star, in his beams of white,
Was her prince in a diadem:
’Twas he who had given those gems that flash
And jewel the front of her smock;
From his lordly fingers of light did dash
Down pearls where she stooped to mock
A jessamine, pale, in the garden’s gloom,
All wan of face, but of sweet perfume.
IV
And the morning-glory, in pride of birth,
From the jessamine turned in scorn:
“I marvel,” she said, “if thy mother earth
Was not sick when thou wast born!
Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead—
Wan thing, dost weary our eye!”
And she weakly laughed and stiffened her head
And turned to her star in the sky.
And the jessamine sighed, as she bent her head,
“I am sick of myself, and I would I were dead!”
From the jessamine turned in scorn:
“I marvel,” she said, “if thy mother earth
Was not sick when thou wast born!
Thou art pale as an infant an hour dead—
Wan thing, dost weary our eye!”
And she weakly laughed and stiffened her head
And turned to her star in the sky.
And the jessamine sighed, as she bent her head,
“I am sick of myself, and I would I were dead!”
V
And the east grew gold with burning bars,
And the sun in his chariot came;
And this princess proud saw her lord of stars
Snuffed out like a taper’s flame:
And higher the lord of the light and hours
Glared up the glittering sky,
And the fragile queen of the morning flowers
In his beams did wilt and die:
But the jessamine waxed in the sun-god’s ray,
And her breath and her beauty made sweet the day.
And the sun in his chariot came;
And this princess proud saw her lord of stars
Snuffed out like a taper’s flame:
And higher the lord of the light and hours
Glared up the glittering sky,
And the fragile queen of the morning flowers
In his beams did wilt and die:
But the jessamine waxed in the sun-god’s ray,
And her breath and her beauty made sweet the day.
THE TOAD IN THE SKULL
A human skull in a churchyard lay;
For the church was a wreck, and, toppling old,
On the graves of their dead, were the tombstones gray,
And crumbling into mold.
For the church was a wreck, and, toppling old,
On the graves of their dead, were the tombstones gray,
And crumbling into mold.
And a hideous toad of this skull had made
A house, a hermitage, long agone,
Where the ivy-tod with many a braid
Half-hid his cell of bone.
A house, a hermitage, long agone,
Where the ivy-tod with many a braid
Half-hid his cell of bone.
And the place was dark; and my feet were drawn
To the desolate spot where the tottering tombs
Seemed sheeted ghosts in the twilight wan
Of the yew-invested glooms.
To the desolate spot where the tottering tombs
Seemed sheeted ghosts in the twilight wan
Of the yew-invested glooms.
The night her crescent had slimly hung
From a single star o’er the shattered wall,
And its feeble light on the stone was flung
Where I sat to hear him call.
From a single star o’er the shattered wall,
And its feeble light on the stone was flung
Where I sat to hear him call.
And I heard this heremite toad as he sate
In the gloom of his ghastly hermitage
To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate,
Like a misanthropic sage:
In the gloom of his ghastly hermitage
To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate,
Like a misanthropic sage:
“Oh, beauty is well and wealth to all;
But wealth without beauty makes fair:
And beauty with wealth brings wooers tall
Whom she snares with her golden hair.
But wealth without beauty makes fair:
And beauty with wealth brings wooers tall
Whom she snares with her golden hair.
“Though beauty be well and be wealth to all,
And wealth without beauty draw men,
Beauty must come to the vaulted wall,
And what is wealth to her then?...
And wealth without beauty draw men,
Beauty must come to the vaulted wall,
And what is wealth to her then?...
“This skeleton face was beautiful erst;
These sockets were brighter than stars;
And she bartered her beauty for gold accurst—
But the story is older than Mars!” ...
These sockets were brighter than stars;
And she bartered her beauty for gold accurst—
But the story is older than Mars!” ...
THE MOONMEN
I stood in the forest on Huron Hill
When the night was old and the world was still.
When the night was old and the world was still.
The Wind was a wizard who muttering strode
In a raven cloak on a haunted road.
In a raven cloak on a haunted road.
The Sound of Water, a witch who crooned
Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.
Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.
And the Gleam of the Dew on the fern’s green tip
Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.
Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.
The Light of the Stars was a glimmering maid
Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.
Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.
The Scent of the Woods in the delicate air,
A wild-flower shape with chilly hair.
A wild-flower shape with chilly hair.
And it seemed to me these six were met
To greet a greater who came not yet.
To greet a greater who came not yet.
And the speech they spoke, that I listened to,
Was the archetype of the speech I knew.
Was the archetype of the speech I knew.
For the Wind clasped hands with the Water’s rush,
And I heard them whisper, “Hush, oh, hush!”
And I heard them whisper, “Hush, oh, hush!”
The Light of the Stars and the Dew’s cool Gleam
Touched lips and murmured, “Dream, oh, dream!”
Touched lips and murmured, “Dream, oh, dream!”
The Scent of the Woods and the Silence deep
Sighed, bosom to bosom, “Sleep, oh, sleep!”
Sighed, bosom to bosom, “Sleep, oh, sleep!”
And so for a moment the six were dumb,
Then exulted together, “They come, they come!”
Then exulted together, “They come, they come!”
And I stood expectant and seemed to hear
A visible music drawing near.
A visible music drawing near.
Then an Army of Glamour, a glittering host,
Beleaguered the night from coast to coast.
Beleaguered the night from coast to coast.
And the world was filled with spheric fire
From the palpitant chords of many a lyre,
From the palpitant chords of many a lyre,
As out of the East the Moonmen came
Smiting their harps of silver and flame.
Smiting their harps of silver and flame.
More beauty and grace did their forms express
Than the God of Love’s white nakedness.
Than the God of Love’s white nakedness.
More chastity too their faces held
Than the snowy breasts of Diana swelled.
Than the snowy breasts of Diana swelled.
Translucent-limbed, I saw the beat
In their hearts of pearl of the golden heat.
In their hearts of pearl of the golden heat.
And the hair they tossed was a crystal light,
And the eyes beneath it were burning white.
And the eyes beneath it were burning white.
Their hands that lifted, their feet that fell,
Made the darkness blossom to asphodel.
Made the darkness blossom to asphodel.
A placid frenzy, a waking trance,
A soft oracular radiance,
A soft oracular radiance,
Wrapped forms that moved as melodies move,
Laurelled with Godhead and haloed with Love.
Laurelled with Godhead and haloed with Love.
And there in the forest on Huron Hill
The Moonmen camped when the world was still.
The Moonmen camped when the world was still.
. . . . . . . . . . .
What wonder that they who have looked on these
Are lost to the earth’s realities!
Are lost to the earth’s realities!
That they sit aside with a far-off look
Dreaming the dreams that are writ in no book!
Dreaming the dreams that are writ in no book!
PHANTOMS
This was her home; one mossy gable thrust
Above the cedars and the locust trees:
This was her home, whose beauty now is dust,
A lonely memory for melodies
The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.
Above the cedars and the locust trees:
This was her home, whose beauty now is dust,
A lonely memory for melodies
The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.
Here every evening is a prayer: no boast
Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth;
Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower’s ghost,
A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth;
And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.
Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth;
Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower’s ghost,
A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth;
And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.
In vagabond velvet, all the placid day
A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly;
The south-wind sows with ripple and with ray
The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky
Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.
A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly;
The south-wind sows with ripple and with ray
The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky
Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.
Their melancholy quaver, lone and low,
When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat:
The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow,
Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat,
In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.
When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat:
The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow,
Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat,
In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.
He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead,
And all the western glow is far withdrawn;
Not till,—a sleepy mouth love’s kiss makes red,—
The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn,
Breathing sweet guesses of the dreamed-of dawn.
And all the western glow is far withdrawn;
Not till,—a sleepy mouth love’s kiss makes red,—
The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn,
Breathing sweet guesses of the dreamed-of dawn.
When in the shadows, like a rain of gold,
The fireflies stream steadily; and bright
Along the moss the glow-worm, as of old,
A crawling sparkle—like a crooked light
In smoldering vellum—scrawls a square of night,—
The fireflies stream steadily; and bright
Along the moss the glow-worm, as of old,
A crawling sparkle—like a crooked light
In smoldering vellum—scrawls a square of night,—
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
(A Dream)
I
Starless and still and lustreless
And sombre black, it seemed to me,
The heaven hung in hideousness
Of Hell’s serenity:
Indefinite and vague and old
As nothing that is ours,
It rose turrets, dark with mould,
And dark, colossal towers.
And sombre black, it seemed to me,
The heaven hung in hideousness
Of Hell’s serenity:
Indefinite and vague and old
As nothing that is ours,
It rose turrets, dark with mould,
And dark, colossal towers.
II
III
Beneath the black, impending skies,
Like Death’s dead countenance it stood,
Hollow, with cavernous window-eyes
Staring on solitude.
The grass was black, and in it, white
The tombstones rose; and gray,
Long league on league, adown the night,
Like phantoms, stretched away.
Like Death’s dead countenance it stood,
Hollow, with cavernous window-eyes
Staring on solitude.
The grass was black, and in it, white
The tombstones rose; and gray,
Long league on league, adown the night,
Like phantoms, stretched away.
IV
And I, who entered in, could hear
No organ notes resound and roll,
But silence, like an awful fear,
Made tumult in my soul.
And, lo! I saw, like Hell’s wild songs,
The vast interior carved
With shapes of stone, vague woman throngs,
Naked, obscene, and starved.
No organ notes resound and roll,
But silence, like an awful fear,
Made tumult in my soul.
And, lo! I saw, like Hell’s wild songs,
The vast interior carved
With shapes of stone, vague woman throngs,
Naked, obscene, and starved.
V
VI
EIDOLONS
The white moth-mullein brushed its slim
Cool, fairy flowers against his knee;
In places where the way lay dim
The branches, arching hollowly,
Made tomb-like mystery for him.
Cool, fairy flowers against his knee;
In places where the way lay dim
The branches, arching hollowly,
Made tomb-like mystery for him.
The wild-rose and the elder, drenched
With rain, made pale a misty place,—
From which, as from a ghost, he blenched;
He walking with averted face,
And lips white-closed and teeth tight-clenched.
With rain, made pale a misty place,—
From which, as from a ghost, he blenched;
He walking with averted face,
And lips white-closed and teeth tight-clenched.
For far within the forest,—where
Weird shadows stood like phantom men,
And where the ground-hog dug its lair,
The she-fox whelped and had her den,—
The thing kept calling, buried there.
Weird shadows stood like phantom men,
And where the ground-hog dug its lair,
The she-fox whelped and had her den,—
The thing kept calling, buried there.
One dead trunk, like a ruined tower,
Dark green with toppling trailers, shoved
Its wild wreck o’er the brush; one bower
Looked like a dead man, capped and gloved,
The thing that haunted him each hour.
Dark green with toppling trailers, shoved
Its wild wreck o’er the brush; one bower
Looked like a dead man, capped and gloved,
The thing that haunted him each hour.
Now at his side he heard it: thin
As echoes of a thought that speaks
In sleep: and, listening with his chin
Upon his palm, unto his cheeks
He felt the moon’s slow silver win.
As echoes of a thought that speaks
In sleep: and, listening with his chin
Upon his palm, unto his cheeks
He felt the moon’s slow silver win.
And now the voice was still: and lo,
With eyes that stared on naught but night,
He looked and saw—what none shall know!
The form of one, who long from sight
Had lain, here murdered long ago?...
With eyes that stared on naught but night,
He looked and saw—what none shall know!
The form of one, who long from sight
Had lain, here murdered long ago?...
IDENTITIES
I sat alone in the arrased room
Of Sin, wrapped pale in her winding shroud;
The night was stricken with glare and gloom,
And the wailing wind was loud.
Of Sin, wrapped pale in her winding shroud;
The night was stricken with glare and gloom,
And the wailing wind was loud.
I heard the gallop of one who rode
Like a rushing leaf on the wind that lisps;
The night with the speed of her steed was sowed
With streaming will-o’-the-wisps.
Like a rushing leaf on the wind that lisps;
The night with the speed of her steed was sowed
With streaming will-o’-the-wisps.
And I said to myself, “’Tis a long-lost Shame,
Who rides to my house through the night and rain!
She will blaze in the blackness a face of flame
When she opens the door again!”
Who rides to my house through the night and rain!
She will blaze in the blackness a face of flame
When she opens the door again!”
I thought of the blame on her lips and brow;
And stared at the door she must enter in—
To sear my soul with her eyes and bow
My heart by the corpse of Sin.
And stared at the door she must enter in—
To sear my soul with her eyes and bow
My heart by the corpse of Sin.
HALLOWE’EN
It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe’en,
Where silence and darkness had built them a lair,
That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen,
And heard her still step on the hush-haunted air.
Where silence and darkness had built them a lair,
That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen,
And heard her still step on the hush-haunted air.
It was last Hallowe’en in the glimmer and swoon
Of mist and of moonlight, where once we had sinned,
That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon,
And hair, like a raven, blown wild on the wind.
Of mist and of moonlight, where once we had sinned,
That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon,
And hair, like a raven, blown wild on the wind.
It was last Hallowe’en where starlight and dew
Made mystical marriage on flower and leaf,
That she led me with looks of a love, that I knew
Was dead, and the voice of a passion too brief.
Made mystical marriage on flower and leaf,
That she led me with looks of a love, that I knew
Was dead, and the voice of a passion too brief.
It was last Hallowe’en in the forest of dreams,
Where trees are eidolons and flowers have eyes,
That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams,
And heard, like the night-wind, her tears and her sighs.
Where trees are eidolons and flowers have eyes,
That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams,
And heard, like the night-wind, her tears and her sighs.
ANSWERED
Do you remember how that night drew on?
That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wan
As eyes that gaze, reproachful, in a dream;
Loved eyes, long dead, and sadder than the grave?
How through the heaven stole the moon’s gray gleam,
Like a nun’s ghost down a cathedral’s nave?—
Do you remember how that night drew on?
That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wan
As eyes that gaze, reproachful, in a dream;
Loved eyes, long dead, and sadder than the grave?
How through the heaven stole the moon’s gray gleam,
Like a nun’s ghost down a cathedral’s nave?—
Do you remember how that night drew on?
Do you remember the hard words then said?
The words of hate above my bowed-down head,
That left me dead, long, long before I died:
Those words, whose bitterness had stabbed and slain
My heart before I knew your love had lied,
Or pierced me with the dagger of disdain.—
Do you remember the hard words then said?
The words of hate above my bowed-down head,
That left me dead, long, long before I died:
Those words, whose bitterness had stabbed and slain
My heart before I knew your love had lied,
Or pierced me with the dagger of disdain.—
Do you remember the hard words then said?
Do you remember?—now the night draws down,—
As on that night,—the heavens, lightnings crown
With wrecks of thunder; and the moon doth give
The clouds wild witchery,—as in a room,
Behind the sorrowful arras, still may live
The pallid secret of the haunted gloom.—
Do you remember, now the night draws down?
As on that night,—the heavens, lightnings crown
With wrecks of thunder; and the moon doth give
The clouds wild witchery,—as in a room,
Behind the sorrowful arras, still may live
The pallid secret of the haunted gloom.—
Do you remember, now the night draws down?
Do you remember, now it comes to pass
Your form is bowed as is the wind-swept grass?
And death hath won from you that confidence
Denied to life? now your sick soul rebels
Against your pride with tragic eloquence,
That self-crowned demon of the heart’s fierce hells.—
Do you remember, now it comes to pass?
Your form is bowed as is the wind-swept grass?
And death hath won from you that confidence
Denied to life? now your sick soul rebels
Against your pride with tragic eloquence,
That self-crowned demon of the heart’s fierce hells.—
Do you remember, now it comes to pass?
UNFULFILLED
In my dream last night it seemed I stood
With a boy’s glad heart in my boyhood’s wood.
With a boy’s glad heart in my boyhood’s wood.
The beryl green and the cairngorm brown
Of the day through the deep leaves sifted down.
Of the day through the deep leaves sifted down.
The rippling drip of a passing shower
Rinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.
Rinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.
The splash and urge of a waterfall
Spread stairwayed rocks with a crystal caul.
Spread stairwayed rocks with a crystal caul.
And I waded the strip of the creek’s dry bed
For the colored keel and the arrow-head.
For the colored keel and the arrow-head.
And I found the cohosh coigne the same
Tossing with torches of pearly flame.
Tossing with torches of pearly flame.
The elder bosk with its warm perfume,
And the yellow stars of the daisy bloom;
And the yellow stars of the daisy bloom;
The moss, the fern, and the touch-me-not
I breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.
I breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.
And I saw the bird, that sang its best,
In the tufted sumac building its nest.
In the tufted sumac building its nest.
And I saw the chipmunk’s stealthy face,
And the rabbit crouched in a grassy place.
And the rabbit crouched in a grassy place.
And I watched the crows, that cawed and cried,
Harrying the hawk at the forest-side;
Harrying the hawk at the forest-side;
The bees that sucked in the blossoms slim,
And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.
And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.
And felt the silence, the dusk, the dread
Of the spot where they buried the unknown dead:
Of the spot where they buried the unknown dead:
The water-murmur, the insect hum,
And a far bird calling, “Come, oh, come!"—
And a far bird calling, “Come, oh, come!"—
And it seemed in my dream,—that was all too true,—
That I met in the woods again with you.
That I met in the woods again with you.
A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees,
And hands stained red with dewberries.
And hands stained red with dewberries.
And we stopped a moment some word to tell,
And then in the woods we kissed farewell.
And then in the woods we kissed farewell.
But once I met you; yet, lo! it seems
Again and again we meet in dreams.
Again and again we meet in dreams.
And I ask my soul what it all may mean:
If this is the love that should have been.
If this is the love that should have been.
DIRGE
What shall her dreaming keep
Under the sun?
Here where the willows weep
And waters run;
Here where she lies asleep
And all is done.
Under the sun?
Here where the willows weep
And waters run;
Here where she lies asleep
And all is done.
Lights, when the tree-top swings;
Scents that are blown;
Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings;
And the bee’s drone;
These be her comfortings
Round her headstone.
Scents that are blown;
Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings;
And the bee’s drone;
These be her comfortings
Round her headstone.
REST
Under the brindled beech,
Deep in the mottled shade,
Where the rocks hang in reach
Flower and ferny blade,
Let him be laid.
Deep in the mottled shade,
Where the rocks hang in reach
Flower and ferny blade,
Let him be laid.
Here will the brooks that rove
Under the mossy trees,—
Grave with the music of
Underworld melodies,—
Lap him in peace.
Under the mossy trees,—
Grave with the music of
Underworld melodies,—
Lap him in peace.
Here will the winds, that blow
Out of the haunted west,—
Gold with the dreams that glow
There on the heaven’s breast,—
Lull him to rest.
Out of the haunted west,—
Gold with the dreams that glow
There on the heaven’s breast,—
Lull him to rest.
CLAIRVOYANCE
The sunlight, that makes of the heaven
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind, that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts the heart and makes strong.
A pathway for sylphids to throng;
The wind, that makes harps of the forests
For spirits to smite into song,
Are the image and voice of a vision
That comforts the heart and makes strong.
I look in one’s face, and the shadows
Are lifted; and, lo, I can see,
Through windows of evident being,—
Filled full of eternity,—
The form of the essence of Beauty
God garments with mystery.
Are lifted; and, lo, I can see,
Through windows of evident being,—
Filled full of eternity,—
The form of the essence of Beauty
God garments with mystery.
THE IDEAL
Nor time nor all his minions
Of sorrow and of pain,
Shall dash with vulture pinions
The cup she fills again
Within the dream-dominions
Of life where she doth reign.
Of sorrow and of pain,
Shall dash with vulture pinions
The cup she fills again
Within the dream-dominions
Of life where she doth reign.
Clothed on with bright desire
And hope that makes her strong,
With limbs of frost and fire,
She sits above all wrong,
Her heart a living lyre,
And love its only song.
And hope that makes her strong,
With limbs of frost and fire,
She sits above all wrong,
Her heart a living lyre,
And love its only song.
TO ONE READING THE MORTE D’ARTHURE
O daughter of our Southern sun,
Sweet sister of each flower,
Dost dream in terraced Avalon
A shadow-haunted hour?
Or stand with Guinevere upon
Some ivied Camelot tower?
Sweet sister of each flower,
Dost dream in terraced Avalon
A shadow-haunted hour?
Or stand with Guinevere upon
Some ivied Camelot tower?
Or, in the wind, dost breathe the musk
That blows Tintagel’s sea on?
Or ’mid the lists by castled Usk
Hear some wild tourney’s glee on?
Or ’neath the Merlin moons of dusk
Dost muse in old Caerleon?
That blows Tintagel’s sea on?
Or ’mid the lists by castled Usk
Hear some wild tourney’s glee on?
Or ’neath the Merlin moons of dusk
Dost muse in old Caerleon?