The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNirvana DaysThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Nirvana DaysAuthor: Cale Young RiceRelease date: October 7, 2009 [eBook #30198]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Garcia, Ritu Aggarwal and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIRVANA DAYS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Nirvana DaysAuthor: Cale Young RiceRelease date: October 7, 2009 [eBook #30198]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Garcia, Ritu Aggarwal and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
Title: Nirvana Days
Author: Cale Young Rice
Author: Cale Young Rice
Release date: October 7, 2009 [eBook #30198]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Ritu Aggarwal and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIRVANA DAYS ***
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:Printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.
A few of the poems of this volume are retained from two of the author's earlier volumes which are now out of print. The rest are new.
Sweep unrestOut of my blood,Winds of the sea! Sweep the fogOut of my brainFor I am oneWho has told Life he will be free.Who will not doubt of work that's done,Who will not fear the work to do.Who will hold peaks PrometheanBetter than all Jove's honey-dew.Who when the Vulture tears his breastWill smile into the Terror's Eyes.Who for the World has this Bequest—Hope, that eternally is wise.
Sweep unrestOut of my blood,Winds of the sea! Sweep the fogOut of my brainFor I am oneWho has told Life he will be free.Who will not doubt of work that's done,Who will not fear the work to do.Who will hold peaks PrometheanBetter than all Jove's honey-dew.Who when the Vulture tears his breastWill smile into the Terror's Eyes.Who for the World has this Bequest—Hope, that eternally is wise.
Last night I slipt from the banks of dreamAnd swam in the currents of God,On a tide where His fairies were at play,Catching salt tears in their little white hands,For human hearts;And dancing dancing, in gala bands,On the currents of God;And singing, singing:—There is no wind blows here or spray—Wind upon us!Only the waters ripple awayUnder our feet as we gather tears.God has made mortals for the years,Us for alway!God has made mortals full of fears,Fears for the night and fears for the day.If they would free them from grief that sears,If they would keep all that love endears,If they would lay no more lilies on biers—Let them say!For we are swift to enchant and tireTime's will!Our feet are wiser than all desire,Our song is better than faith or fame;To whom it is given no ill e'er came,Who has it not grows chill!Who has it not grows laggard and lame,Nor knows that the world is a Minstrel's lyre,Smitten and never still!...Last night on the currents of God.
Last night I slipt from the banks of dreamAnd swam in the currents of God,On a tide where His fairies were at play,Catching salt tears in their little white hands,For human hearts;And dancing dancing, in gala bands,On the currents of God;And singing, singing:—There is no wind blows here or spray—Wind upon us!Only the waters ripple awayUnder our feet as we gather tears.God has made mortals for the years,Us for alway!God has made mortals full of fears,Fears for the night and fears for the day.If they would free them from grief that sears,If they would keep all that love endears,If they would lay no more lilies on biers—Let them say!For we are swift to enchant and tireTime's will!Our feet are wiser than all desire,Our song is better than faith or fame;To whom it is given no ill e'er came,Who has it not grows chill!Who has it not grows laggard and lame,Nor knows that the world is a Minstrel's lyre,Smitten and never still!...Last night on the currents of God.
The seven fleets of VeniceSet sail across the seaFor Cyprus and for TrebizondAyoub and Araby.Their gonfalons are floating far,St. Mark's has heard the mass,And to the noon the salt lagoonLies white, like burning glass.The seven fleets of Venice—And each its way to go,Led by a Falier or Tron,Zorzi or Dandalo.The Patriarch has blessed them all,The Doge has waved the word,And in their wings the murmuringsOf waiting winds are heard.The seven fleets of Venice—And what shall be their fate?One shall return with porphyryAnd pearl and fair agàte.One shall return with spice and spoilAnd silk of Samarcand.But nevermore shallonewin o'erThe sea, to any land.Oh, they shall bring the East back,And they shall bring the West,The seven fleets our Venice setsA-sail upon her quest.But some shall bring despair backAnd some shall leave their keelsDeeper than wind or wave frets,Or sun ever steals.
The seven fleets of VeniceSet sail across the seaFor Cyprus and for TrebizondAyoub and Araby.Their gonfalons are floating far,St. Mark's has heard the mass,And to the noon the salt lagoonLies white, like burning glass.
The seven fleets of Venice—And each its way to go,Led by a Falier or Tron,Zorzi or Dandalo.The Patriarch has blessed them all,The Doge has waved the word,And in their wings the murmuringsOf waiting winds are heard.
The seven fleets of Venice—And what shall be their fate?One shall return with porphyryAnd pearl and fair agàte.One shall return with spice and spoilAnd silk of Samarcand.But nevermore shallonewin o'erThe sea, to any land.
Oh, they shall bring the East back,And they shall bring the West,The seven fleets our Venice setsA-sail upon her quest.But some shall bring despair backAnd some shall leave their keelsDeeper than wind or wave frets,Or sun ever steals.
If I were in Japan today,In little Japan today,I'd watch the sampan-rowers rideOn Yokohama bay.I'd watch the little flower-folkPass on the Bund, where playOf "foreign" music fills their earsWith wonder new alway.Or in a kuruma I'd stepAnd "Noge-yama!" cry,And bare brown feet should wheel me fastWhere Noge-yama, highAbove the city and sea's vastUprises, with the sighOf pines about its festal fanesBuilt free to sun and sky.And there till dusk I'd sit and thinkOf Shaka Muni, lordOf Buddhas; or of Fudo's fireAnd rope and lifted sword.And, ere I left, a surging shadeOf clouds, a distant horde,Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear—With sutras overscored.Sutras of ice and rock and snow,Written by hands of heatAnd thaw upon it, till 'twould seemMeant for the final seatOf the lord Buddha and his bliss—If ever he repeatThis life where millions still are boundWithin Illusion's cheat.
If I were in Japan today,In little Japan today,I'd watch the sampan-rowers rideOn Yokohama bay.I'd watch the little flower-folkPass on the Bund, where playOf "foreign" music fills their earsWith wonder new alway.
Or in a kuruma I'd stepAnd "Noge-yama!" cry,And bare brown feet should wheel me fastWhere Noge-yama, highAbove the city and sea's vastUprises, with the sighOf pines about its festal fanesBuilt free to sun and sky.
And there till dusk I'd sit and thinkOf Shaka Muni, lordOf Buddhas; or of Fudo's fireAnd rope and lifted sword.And, ere I left, a surging shadeOf clouds, a distant horde,Should break and Fugi's cone stand clear—With sutras overscored.
Sutras of ice and rock and snow,Written by hands of heatAnd thaw upon it, till 'twould seemMeant for the final seatOf the lord Buddha and his bliss—If ever he repeatThis life where millions still are boundWithin Illusion's cheat.
Or were I in Japan today—Perchance at Kyoto—Down Tera-machi I would searchFor charm or curio.Up narrow stairs in sandals pureOf soil or dust I'd goInto a room of magic shapes—Gods, dragons, dread Nio.And seated on the silent mats,With many a treasure near—Of ivory the gods have dreamt,And satsuma as dear,Of bronzes whose mysterious mintSeems not of now or here—I'd buy and dream and dream and buy,Lost far in Mâyâ's sphere.Then gathering up my gains at last,Mid "sayonaras" softAnd bows and gentle courtesiesRepeated oft and oft,My host and I should part—"O pleaseThe skies much weal to waftHis years," I'd think, then cross San-joTo fair Chion-in aloft.For set aloft and set apart,Beyond the city's din,Under the shade of ancient heightsLies templed calm Chion-in.And there the great bell's booming fillsIts gates all day, and thinLow beating on mokugyo, byPriests passioning for sin.And there the sun upon its courtsAnd carvings, gods and graves,Rests as no light of earth-lands known,Like to Nirvana lavesAnd washes with sweet under-flowInto the soul's far caves.And no more shall this life seem realTo one who feels its waves."No more!" I'd say, then wander onTo Kiyomizu-shrine,Which is so old antiquity'sFar self cannot divineIts birth, but knows that Kwannon, sheOf mercy's might benign,Has reached her thousand hands alwaysFrom it to Nippon's line.And She should hear my many prayers,And have my freest gifts.And many days beside her shouldI watch the crystal riftsOf Otawa's clear waters earnTheir way, o'er rocks and drifts,Beside the trestled temple down—Like murmurs of sweet shrifts.Then, when the city wearied me,To Katsura I'd wend—A garden hid across green milesOf rice-lands quaintly penned.And, by the stork-bestridden lake,I'd walk or musing mendMy soul with lotus-memoriesAnd hopes—without an end.
Or were I in Japan today—Perchance at Kyoto—Down Tera-machi I would searchFor charm or curio.Up narrow stairs in sandals pureOf soil or dust I'd goInto a room of magic shapes—Gods, dragons, dread Nio.
And seated on the silent mats,With many a treasure near—Of ivory the gods have dreamt,And satsuma as dear,Of bronzes whose mysterious mintSeems not of now or here—I'd buy and dream and dream and buy,Lost far in Mâyâ's sphere.
Then gathering up my gains at last,Mid "sayonaras" softAnd bows and gentle courtesiesRepeated oft and oft,My host and I should part—"O pleaseThe skies much weal to waftHis years," I'd think, then cross San-joTo fair Chion-in aloft.
For set aloft and set apart,Beyond the city's din,Under the shade of ancient heightsLies templed calm Chion-in.And there the great bell's booming fillsIts gates all day, and thinLow beating on mokugyo, byPriests passioning for sin.
And there the sun upon its courtsAnd carvings, gods and graves,Rests as no light of earth-lands known,Like to Nirvana lavesAnd washes with sweet under-flowInto the soul's far caves.And no more shall this life seem realTo one who feels its waves.
"No more!" I'd say, then wander onTo Kiyomizu-shrine,Which is so old antiquity'sFar self cannot divineIts birth, but knows that Kwannon, sheOf mercy's might benign,Has reached her thousand hands alwaysFrom it to Nippon's line.
And She should hear my many prayers,And have my freest gifts.And many days beside her shouldI watch the crystal riftsOf Otawa's clear waters earnTheir way, o'er rocks and drifts,Beside the trestled temple down—Like murmurs of sweet shrifts.
Then, when the city wearied me,To Katsura I'd wend—A garden hid across green milesOf rice-lands quaintly penned.And, by the stork-bestridden lake,I'd walk or musing mendMy soul with lotus-memoriesAnd hopes—without an end.
Or were I in Japan today,Hiroshima should callMy heart—Hiroshima built roundHer ancient castle wall.By the low flowering moat where sunAnd silence ever fallInto a swoon, I'd build againOld days of Daimyo thrall.Of charge and bloody countercharge,When many a samuraiFierce-panoplied fell at its pale,Suppressing groan or cry;Suppressing all but silent hatesThat swept from eye to eye,While lips smiled decorously on,Or mocked urbane goodbye.Then to the river I would passAnd drift upon its tideBy many a tea-house hung in bloomAbove its mirrored side.And geisha fluttering gay beforeTheir guests should pause in piedKimono, then with laughter brightBehind the shoji hide.Unto an isle of Ugina'sLow port my craft should swing,Or scarce an island seems it nowTo my fair fancying,But a shrined jut of earth up throThe sea from which to singUnto the evening star of allNight's incarnations bring.Then backward thro the darkened streetsI'd walk: long lanterns writWith ghostly characters should danceBeside each door, or flit,Thin paper spirits, to and froAnd mow the wind, when itDemanded of them reverenceAnd passed with twirl or twit.What music, too, of samisenAnd koto I should hear!Tinkle on weirder tinkle throThe strangely wistful earWhat shadows on the shoji-doorOf my dim soul should veerAll night in sleep, and haunt the lightOf many a coming year!
Or were I in Japan today,Hiroshima should callMy heart—Hiroshima built roundHer ancient castle wall.By the low flowering moat where sunAnd silence ever fallInto a swoon, I'd build againOld days of Daimyo thrall.
Of charge and bloody countercharge,When many a samuraiFierce-panoplied fell at its pale,Suppressing groan or cry;Suppressing all but silent hatesThat swept from eye to eye,While lips smiled decorously on,Or mocked urbane goodbye.
Then to the river I would passAnd drift upon its tideBy many a tea-house hung in bloomAbove its mirrored side.And geisha fluttering gay beforeTheir guests should pause in piedKimono, then with laughter brightBehind the shoji hide.
Unto an isle of Ugina'sLow port my craft should swing,Or scarce an island seems it nowTo my fair fancying,But a shrined jut of earth up throThe sea from which to singUnto the evening star of allNight's incarnations bring.
Then backward thro the darkened streetsI'd walk: long lanterns writWith ghostly characters should danceBeside each door, or flit,Thin paper spirits, to and froAnd mow the wind, when itDemanded of them reverenceAnd passed with twirl or twit.
What music, too, of samisenAnd koto I should hear!Tinkle on weirder tinkle throThe strangely wistful earWhat shadows on the shoji-doorOf my dim soul should veerAll night in sleep, and haunt the lightOf many a coming year!
Or were I in Japan today,From Ujina I'd sailFor mountain-isled MigajimaUpon the distance, frailAs the mirage, to Amida,Of this world's transient tale,Where he sits clothed in boundless lightAnd sees it vainly ail.Up to the great sea-torii,Its temple-gate, I'd wind,There furl my sail beneath its beam;And soon my soul should findWhat it shall never, tho it siftThe world elsewhere, and blindItself at last with sight of allEarth's blisses to mankind."Migajima! Migajima!"How would enchantment chantThe syllables within me, tillDesire should cease and pantOf passion press no more my will—But let charmed peace supplantAll thought of birth and death and birth—Yea, karma turn askant.For on Migajima none mayGive birth and none may die—Since birth and death are equal sinsUnto the wise. So IShould muse all day where the sea spillsIts murmur softly byThe still stone lanterns all arowUnder the deathless sky.And under cryptomeria-treeAnd camphor-tree and pine,And tall pagoda, rising roofOn roof into the shineOf the pure air—red roof on roof,With memories in each lineOf far Confucian China whereThey first were held divine.And o'er Migajima the moonShould rise for me again.So magical its glow, I dareThink of it only whenMy heart is strong to shun the snareOf witcheries that menMay lose their souls in evermore,Nor, after, care nor ken.
Or were I in Japan today,From Ujina I'd sailFor mountain-isled MigajimaUpon the distance, frailAs the mirage, to Amida,Of this world's transient tale,Where he sits clothed in boundless lightAnd sees it vainly ail.
Up to the great sea-torii,Its temple-gate, I'd wind,There furl my sail beneath its beam;And soon my soul should findWhat it shall never, tho it siftThe world elsewhere, and blindItself at last with sight of allEarth's blisses to mankind.
"Migajima! Migajima!"How would enchantment chantThe syllables within me, tillDesire should cease and pantOf passion press no more my will—But let charmed peace supplantAll thought of birth and death and birth—Yea, karma turn askant.
For on Migajima none mayGive birth and none may die—Since birth and death are equal sinsUnto the wise. So IShould muse all day where the sea spillsIts murmur softly byThe still stone lanterns all arowUnder the deathless sky.
And under cryptomeria-treeAnd camphor-tree and pine,And tall pagoda, rising roofOn roof into the shineOf the pure air—red roof on roof,With memories in each lineOf far Confucian China whereThey first were held divine.
And o'er Migajima the moonShould rise for me again.So magical its glow, I dareThink of it only whenMy heart is strong to shun the snareOf witcheries that menMay lose their souls in evermore,Nor, after, care nor ken.
Yes, were I in Japan todayThese things I'd do, and more.For Ise gleams in royal groves,And Nara with its lore,And Nikko hid in mountains—whereThe Shogun, great of yore,Built timeless tombs whose glory gloomsFunereally o'er.These things I'd do! But last of all,On Kamakura's lea,I'd seek Daibutsu's face of calmAnd still the final seaOf all the West within me—fromIts fret and fever freeMy spirit—into patience, peace,And passion's mastery.
Yes, were I in Japan todayThese things I'd do, and more.For Ise gleams in royal groves,And Nara with its lore,And Nikko hid in mountains—whereThe Shogun, great of yore,Built timeless tombs whose glory gloomsFunereally o'er.
These things I'd do! But last of all,On Kamakura's lea,I'd seek Daibutsu's face of calmAnd still the final seaOf all the West within me—fromIts fret and fever freeMy spirit—into patience, peace,And passion's mastery.
You who are old—And have fought the fight—And have won or lost or left the field—Weigh us not downWith fears of the world, as we run!With the wisdom that is too right,The warning to which we cannot yield,The shadow that follows the sun,Follows forever!And with all that desire must leave undone,Though as a god it endeavor;Weigh, weigh us not down!But gird our hope to believe—That all that is doneIs done by dream and daring—Bid us dream on!That Earth was not bornOr Heaven built of bewaring—Yield us the dawn!You dreamt your hour—and dared, but weWould dream till all you despaired ofbe;Would dare—till the world,Won to a new wayfaring,Be thence forever easier upward drawn!
You who are old—And have fought the fight—And have won or lost or left the field—Weigh us not downWith fears of the world, as we run!With the wisdom that is too right,The warning to which we cannot yield,The shadow that follows the sun,Follows forever!And with all that desire must leave undone,Though as a god it endeavor;Weigh, weigh us not down!
But gird our hope to believe—That all that is doneIs done by dream and daring—Bid us dream on!That Earth was not bornOr Heaven built of bewaring—Yield us the dawn!You dreamt your hour—and dared, but weWould dream till all you despaired ofbe;Would dare—till the world,Won to a new wayfaring,Be thence forever easier upward drawn!
Gulls on the wind,Crying! crying!Are you the ghostsOf Erin's dead?Of the forlornWhose days went sighingEver for BeautyThat ever fled?Ever for LightThat never kindled?Ever for SongNo lips have sung?Ever for JoyThat ever dwindled?Ever for Love that stung?
Gulls on the wind,Crying! crying!Are you the ghostsOf Erin's dead?Of the forlornWhose days went sighingEver for BeautyThat ever fled?
Ever for LightThat never kindled?Ever for SongNo lips have sung?Ever for JoyThat ever dwindled?Ever for Love that stung?
I know not where it was I saw them sit,For in my dreams I had outwandered farThat endless wanderer men call the sea—Whose winds like incantations wrap the worldAnd help the moon in her high mysteries.I know not how it was that I was ledUnto their tryst; or what dim infiniteOf perfect and imperishable nightHung round, a radiance ineffable;For I was too intoxicate and trancedWith beauty that I knew was very love.So when divinity from her had stolenInto his spirit, as, from fields of myrrhOr forests of red sandal by the sea,Steal slaking airs, and he began to speak,I could but gather these few fleeting words:"Your glance sends fragrance sweeter than the lily,Your hands are visible bodiments of songYou are the voice that April light has lost,Her silence that was music of glad birds.The wind's heart have you, and its mystery,When poet Spring comes piping o'er the hillsTo make of Tartarus forgotten fear.Yea all the generations of the world,Whose whence and whither but the gods shall know.Are vassal to your vows forevermore."And she, I knew, made answer, for her wordsFell warm as womanhood with wordless things,But I had drifted on within my dream,To that pale space which is oblivion.
I know not where it was I saw them sit,For in my dreams I had outwandered farThat endless wanderer men call the sea—Whose winds like incantations wrap the worldAnd help the moon in her high mysteries.I know not how it was that I was ledUnto their tryst; or what dim infiniteOf perfect and imperishable nightHung round, a radiance ineffable;For I was too intoxicate and trancedWith beauty that I knew was very love.So when divinity from her had stolenInto his spirit, as, from fields of myrrhOr forests of red sandal by the sea,Steal slaking airs, and he began to speak,I could but gather these few fleeting words:"Your glance sends fragrance sweeter than the lily,Your hands are visible bodiments of songYou are the voice that April light has lost,Her silence that was music of glad birds.The wind's heart have you, and its mystery,When poet Spring comes piping o'er the hillsTo make of Tartarus forgotten fear.Yea all the generations of the world,Whose whence and whither but the gods shall know.Are vassal to your vows forevermore."And she, I knew, made answer, for her wordsFell warm as womanhood with wordless things,But I had drifted on within my dream,To that pale space which is oblivion.
Night is above me,And Night is above the night.The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.The earth as a somnambulist moves onIn a strange sleep ...A sea-bird cries.And the cry wakes in meDim, dead sea-folk, my sires—Who more than myself are me.Who sat on their beach long nights ago and sawThe sea in its silence;And cursed it or implored:Or with the Cross defied;Then on the morrow in their boats went down.
Night is above me,And Night is above the night.The sea is beside me soughing, or is still.The earth as a somnambulist moves onIn a strange sleep ...A sea-bird cries.And the cry wakes in meDim, dead sea-folk, my sires—Who more than myself are me.Who sat on their beach long nights ago and sawThe sea in its silence;And cursed it or implored:Or with the Cross defied;Then on the morrow in their boats went down.
Night is above me ...And Night is above the night.Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand ...And the low reluctant tide,That rushes back to ebb a last farewellTo the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.Rocks.... But the tide is out,And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamedThat has no hiding-place.And the sea-bird hushes—The bird and all far cries within my blood—And earth as a somnambulist moves on.
Night is above me ...And Night is above the night.Rocks are about me, and, beyond, the sand ...And the low reluctant tide,That rushes back to ebb a last farewellTo the flotsam borne so long upon its breast.Rocks.... But the tide is out,And the slime lies naked, like a thing ashamedThat has no hiding-place.And the sea-bird hushes—The bird and all far cries within my blood—And earth as a somnambulist moves on.
My gondola is a black sea-swan,And glides beneath the moon.Dark palaces beside me pass,Like visions in a beryl-glassOf what shall never be, alas,Or what has been too soon.Like what shall never be, but inThe breathing of a swoon.My gondola is a black sea-swan,And makes her mystic wayFrom door to phantom water-door,While carven balconies hang o'erAnd casements framed for love say moreThan love can ever say.Say more than any voice but voiceOf silent magic may.My gondola is a black sea-swan—Rialto lies behind.And by me the Salute swings,A loveliness that must take wingsAnd vanish, as imaginingsWithin an Afrit's mind;As vague and vast imaginingsThat can no substance find.My gondola is a black sea-swan:San Marco and the shaftOf the slim Campanile stealInto my trance and leave a sealUpon my senses, like the feelOf long enchantment quaffed:Of long enchantments such as songsOf sage Al Raschid waft.My gondola is a black sea-swanAnd gains to the lagoon,Where samphire and sea-lavenderAround me float or softly stir,While far-off Venice still lifts herFair witchery to the moonAnd all that wonder e'er gave birthSeems out of beauty hewn.
My gondola is a black sea-swan,And glides beneath the moon.Dark palaces beside me pass,Like visions in a beryl-glassOf what shall never be, alas,Or what has been too soon.Like what shall never be, but inThe breathing of a swoon.
My gondola is a black sea-swan,And makes her mystic wayFrom door to phantom water-door,While carven balconies hang o'erAnd casements framed for love say moreThan love can ever say.Say more than any voice but voiceOf silent magic may.
My gondola is a black sea-swan—Rialto lies behind.And by me the Salute swings,A loveliness that must take wingsAnd vanish, as imaginingsWithin an Afrit's mind;As vague and vast imaginingsThat can no substance find.
My gondola is a black sea-swan:San Marco and the shaftOf the slim Campanile stealInto my trance and leave a sealUpon my senses, like the feelOf long enchantment quaffed:Of long enchantments such as songsOf sage Al Raschid waft.
My gondola is a black sea-swanAnd gains to the lagoon,Where samphire and sea-lavenderAround me float or softly stir,While far-off Venice still lifts herFair witchery to the moonAnd all that wonder e'er gave birthSeems out of beauty hewn.