16

The Dream of his Soul, in flesh and blood—Not to possess, but only to see—Was given him, for an hour:Ah, fool, he lingered longer,—The Dream died like the shadow of a Star!

Indignity your part today,Suffering the guerdon of the gods;No country to claim your own,Nowhere to lay your head.The ocean of ignorance separates us;The snow-storm of commerce blinds the eye;Yet you must stand true,Bridge of blood and flesh between the West and East.In ages to come, whenMan will love his brother,Irrespective of birth and breed;In the pantheon of the future, yours the immortal seat.Son of man, you are brother!Bearer of the cross of God!Your destiny the lodestar of our epoch,Your life our rood-littered road of the Lord.Arise, awake, halt notTill the goal is reached;Raise high the Host of freedomBlare the trumpet of light."Suffer you, for the world to rejoice";"Die" so they "can live";Live that you may bring the lightTo the meeting place of the West and East.

In the perfumed shrine of love,Where burns memory's exhaustless incenseFrom the irridescent thurible of hope,On the altar and couch of my heartRest thy limbs, O, god of my soul.Drink of the unquenchable draught of caresses;Tear the flowers of my dreams and fancies;Scatter the sacred petals of my passionTo the four winds of thy rejoicing.Thy rejoicing, that one festival of the High Gods,Where no offering that I bring ever be too dear,Where no soul burnt in the fire of senses can perish;Where no suffering fails to be mother and daughter of joy.Take all, great God among these Gods:The pearl of my woman-soul buried in deeps of passion,The coral-wreath from the ocean of my bleeding heart;And ravish with exquisite merciless touchThe one star in my heaven that has led thee hither—My life's eternity in this worship of an hour.

Thy rejoicing, that one festival of the High Gods,Where no offering that I bring ever be too dear,Where no soul burnt in the fire of senses can perish;Where no suffering fails to be mother and daughter of joy.Take all, great God among these Gods:The pearl of my woman-soul buried in deeps of passion,The coral-wreath from the ocean of my bleeding heart;And ravish with exquisite merciless touchThe one star in my heaven that has led thee hither—My life's eternity in this worship of an hour.

Broken and bruised by the hand of Fate,Dark night, my staff,Leaning on its shadowy strength I walkToward thee, my God.Thy crescent my e'er-present friend;Thy wind, thy voice,Calls me to go on without endTo thy star that my soul hath seen.The hour is black, my road unbuilt;My beggar's songI cannot sing; yet, thou knowest,For thy love I long!I come, O Lord! broken and batteredTo thy world where sorrow is not.

Kiss, my love, kissMy burning, breaking being;So when cold deathWill put out the lightIn some wildernessOf far forsaken lifeMight each kiss blossomInto a lotus and a Shephali.[2]And in the desolate hoursOf loneliness of travelingIn the dusk of despairOne petal of theseWill cheer the vagrant soulsThat tread the pathwayOf love's forsaking.Or, when Death will sowThis Soul of mineOn the lake-shore of sorrow,Like a weeping willow I will spring,And with my green tressesAnd bending bodyShall shelter secrecy-seeking loversThat love for an hour,As our twin hearts today.Kiss then, with kisses of flame;Touch me with rosy caresses;Bury this, my hope, my dream,And thy all-conquering love of me;So the kiss-flowers may each be a dream!May my willow be the vision of Eternal Spring.

[2]Flowers full of perfume, abounding in Lower Bengal, India.

Violet hills,Rosy mist,Limpid pool,Golden notes from sunset's luteFor shadowsDraped in greenWith purple feetTo dance and swimThrough irridescent undulatings.Dusk descends;Mauve cloudlets—Dying butterflies—Flit and fly and dieIn the opalescent ocean of mistThat grows dark and still,Kisses away the last goldFrom the brow of the hills;Till the coral crescentWith its wand of breezeMakes silver ripple-musicOn the pool's shadow-laden deeps.

Our hopes that failAre but truths that setTo illumine other spirits on their pathway;As our joys that come trueAre their far-off dreams,That through the cadence of our lifeRing out their pent-up tunes.Whatever dies—needs must live,Whatever breathes doth die too;But above death and lifeShines that High LightWhere all find rest,Yet endlessly move.

[3]The wordabsoluteis the synonym for the Sanskrit word Sanatan, meaningEternal and Immutable Truth.

Killing the light,Blurring the stars,Marring the breeze—Nature's many-stringed harp—It comesSilently, sinisterly,Over the land, over the sea,Spreading its beggar-raiment of brown.Without stop, without sound,Over the valleyLike a great serpent of silenceCoiling around the heart of sound.A damp insidiousnessCreeps into the night;A drab numbness sets inDripping in lugubrious dropsFrom the haggard fingersOf the autumn trees.It strangles the last sound,It devours the last light,Trembles in fearTo see its own visage;It moves on, on, and around,Ceaselessly, untiringly,Till the black night is drownedIn an abyss of brown.

Killing the light,Blurring the stars,Marring the breeze—Nature's many-stringed harp—

It comesSilently, sinisterly,Over the land, over the sea,Spreading its beggar-raiment of brown.

Without stop, without sound,Over the valleyLike a great serpent of silenceCoiling around the heart of sound.

A damp insidiousnessCreeps into the night;A drab numbness sets inDripping in lugubrious dropsFrom the haggard fingersOf the autumn trees.

It strangles the last sound,It devours the last light,Trembles in fearTo see its own visage;

It moves on, on, and around,Ceaselessly, untiringly,Till the black night is drownedIn an abyss of brown.

In love's afterglow, full of stars,Those lilies of the river of night,Sing no song, dear, speak no word.The white noontide has ebbed into gold;Shores-breaking seas cease to roar;Lo! the moonrise of our soul.Hardly a kiss, or the shadow of a caress;No decking the hour with the jasmines of touch;But a rose-petal shivering in exquisite agony—our love.The weary sunset has grown wearier;A vague lassitude encircles us twain,As separation builds its pathway of tears.Cease weeping, yet the saffron light lingers;The stars throb in nebulous lustre,As our hearts to the music of desire.What matters if winter be nigh?We sang summer to sleep,And autumn on its bed of leaves.Now comes the hour of parting for us,As the last light flickers and fades;Even love's afterglow dying, and is dead.Alas! thou art gone, as are the hours of day;The hard gem-burning stars do not set! Oh,In what dark, in what forest roamest thou?

In love's afterglow, full of stars,Those lilies of the river of night,Sing no song, dear, speak no word.

The white noontide has ebbed into gold;Shores-breaking seas cease to roar;Lo! the moonrise of our soul.

Hardly a kiss, or the shadow of a caress;No decking the hour with the jasmines of touch;But a rose-petal shivering in exquisite agony—our love.

The weary sunset has grown wearier;A vague lassitude encircles us twain,As separation builds its pathway of tears.

Cease weeping, yet the saffron light lingers;The stars throb in nebulous lustre,As our hearts to the music of desire.

What matters if winter be nigh?We sang summer to sleep,And autumn on its bed of leaves.

Now comes the hour of parting for us,As the last light flickers and fades;Even love's afterglow dying, and is dead.

Alas! thou art gone, as are the hours of day;The hard gem-burning stars do not set! Oh,In what dark, in what forest roamest thou?

Art thou about meAmid falling leavesAnd autumn's circling windsWhen the golden shadowsGrow russet and rosyAnd the purple sunset sets fire to the sky?Art thou the breathThat burns my beingWhen cold feel my limbs in terror, and awe?Who art thou? My love?Stranger in a strange garb!Far and farther to be nearer to my heart!Why make spring-flames leapFrom passion's autumn leaves?Why this urge through fatigueWhen time falls fast asleepUnder the shadow of its grave—The winter ice?Yet, and yetThe circling windsRepeat passionate speech,The sunset burns,As my soulIn desire's golden heat,Though night be not farShadows creep nearWith chilling breath and clutching handsTo pluckTo destroyThe flowers of yielding from your heart:Powerless, fear-stricken;I tremble, I stagger, I fallInto oblivion's pitAs time creepsInto winter's graveSilent, empty, white.

Tears of Ages come in a stream,Sighs flow in from Life's hoary height,Souls of Sorrow bring their gleamOf a light that is but a moan, not a sight.The gray waves of the Sea of DeathCongeal under the cold Sun of Suffering,While Time, playing the flute of Fate,Charms them, snake-like, and doth bring.Out of a Cave, beyond Lights and ShadesPresent's storm,—made stormier by Future's promises,—To mingle in the Ocean of DeathLike Sleep, yielding to Dream's caresses.

Tears of Ages come in a stream,Sighs flow in from Life's hoary height,Souls of Sorrow bring their gleamOf a light that is but a moan, not a sight.

The gray waves of the Sea of DeathCongeal under the cold Sun of Suffering,While Time, playing the flute of Fate,Charms them, snake-like, and doth bring.

Out of a Cave, beyond Lights and ShadesPresent's storm,—made stormier by Future's promises,—To mingle in the Ocean of DeathLike Sleep, yielding to Dream's caresses.

In the deeps of DreamO'er the pool of SleepA lone star her faceSeeking, with song-kindled eyesHer Isle of Rest.Across the dusky hillsThe first flush of wakingUnfurls its silver bannerTo signal the Isle for her:She vanishes, as before, into the fading Night.Thus the Eye of LifeSearches for the home of PeaceNight after night:And when the sun of Death risesIt flees,—it loves its own night.

In the deeps of DreamO'er the pool of SleepA lone star her faceSeeking, with song-kindled eyesHer Isle of Rest.

Across the dusky hillsThe first flush of wakingUnfurls its silver bannerTo signal the Isle for her:She vanishes, as before, into the fading Night.

Thus the Eye of LifeSearches for the home of PeaceNight after night:And when the sun of Death risesIt flees,—it loves its own night.

Few notes out of the coffer of sound,An image from the gallery of Nature,An hour from the infinity of Time,—Out of these, blessed creature,Createst thou the world of endless rhyme!

The keyboard black and white;Shadow-Light the Evening's scale;Half silent the voice of thy singing.Quiver the notes in pain;Exquisite, sad, the melody at thy touch;Like the silver arrow of DesirePiercing the Soul's golden heart.The room is lost in dark.The ivory keys, white fringeOf a music long since mute;Yet, in the black nightTremble and toss notesUnheard, undreamt,—like sleepSleepless, and waking full of smart.

The room is lost in dark.The ivory keys, white fringeOf a music long since mute;Yet, in the black nightTremble and toss notesUnheard, undreamt,—like sleepSleepless, and waking full of smart.

In the golden afterglow you lay,When the emerald moonMade thin silver fog-veilsFor the bride of night,Whose saffron-sandled feetWalked the foam-strewn floor of the sea.In my arms you listenedTo words of lovePoured by the infinite heaven of my heart,Echoed by the endless symphony of the sky.Your silent gaze,Deeper than the song of the sea,Farther than the moon,Nearer than your own heart-beat,Asked mine for speech."What can my love sayAt this sad sacred hour?"Hour of parting this!Love's ever-feared moment,Longing's much-dreaded end,Yet no voice sorrows in our being,No woe dims the moon-face tonight.Between the sheltering dunes and fading lightOn an aërial couch lying,Adorned in kiss-woven garments of nudityOur spirits garlanded with myriad embraces,Borne on passion's flaming wingsCross this ocean of partingUnto that far island of CytheraWhere only love reignsIn eternal majesty.

Lone as the lone north star,Stern as the rocks that guard the sanctity of his home,Pure as the white snow of his land,And beauteous his visions like the fjordsAt each turn of the mariner's helm.The lofty glaciers engage his eyes,As life's height the sight of his mind;And his Imagination, expansive as the sea,Tries to push the boundary-line of the sky, his Soul,Further and further, where a new North StarAwaits his exploring eye.

Lone as the lone north star,Stern as the rocks that guard the sanctity of his home,Pure as the white snow of his land,And beauteous his visions like the fjordsAt each turn of the mariner's helm.

The lofty glaciers engage his eyes,As life's height the sight of his mind;And his Imagination, expansive as the sea,Tries to push the boundary-line of the sky, his Soul,Further and further, where a new North StarAwaits his exploring eye.

I know not whose the words,Nor the maker of their music;In my sorrow-laden heartThe aroma of its pathetic artLike the soothing breath of dream.Joy borrows its charm from sorrow;Sorrow feverish with the color of joy;An opaque crystal, a stone on life's stringMade of music that doth ringAs the stars on the lyre of night.A pain it is, made perfect;A call made clear by the voice of peace;A silver stream of songDarkened, yet floweth on and onBetween black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home.

I know not whose the words,Nor the maker of their music;In my sorrow-laden heartThe aroma of its pathetic artLike the soothing breath of dream.

Joy borrows its charm from sorrow;Sorrow feverish with the color of joy;An opaque crystal, a stone on life's stringMade of music that doth ringAs the stars on the lyre of night.

A pain it is, made perfect;A call made clear by the voice of peace;A silver stream of songDarkened, yet floweth on and onBetween black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home.

Pale this twilight-face,Shade-ridden the horizon-light;The forest, a green-gold vision of graceIn its frame of lavender mist.No rose-leaf washed in moonlight;No vine on vermilion walls;Pale sunlight fading into night,Dark tunes, the music of the hour.No death, nor life is ours, here;But the vast vague sea of blackSounded by star-marinersSeeking the Infinite's track.

Pale this twilight-face,Shade-ridden the horizon-light;The forest, a green-gold vision of graceIn its frame of lavender mist.

No rose-leaf washed in moonlight;No vine on vermilion walls;Pale sunlight fading into night,Dark tunes, the music of the hour.

No death, nor life is ours, here;But the vast vague sea of blackSounded by star-marinersSeeking the Infinite's track.

Pour no blood on ashes, brother,That is not the way;Better say nothing,Blood is no life-giver;It makes death look so gay.Dead life, or dead loveNeed no blood at all.No trumpet's call canBring back what you lived, and strove:The ashes know no thrall!Why cry for a colored glassThat for jewel you took;The magic—the dream—All returning to dust and grass,Not a day love your soul forsook.At last, you have known it,That is more than they do.Be not afraid, O friend,Alone, alas, alone! you have loved and lived it,Pour no blood on the ashes, for blood can not turn into dew.

Pour no blood on ashes, brother,That is not the way;Better say nothing,Blood is no life-giver;It makes death look so gay.

Dead life, or dead loveNeed no blood at all.No trumpet's call canBring back what you lived, and strove:The ashes know no thrall!

Why cry for a colored glassThat for jewel you took;The magic—the dream—All returning to dust and grass,Not a day love your soul forsook.

At last, you have known it,That is more than they do.Be not afraid, O friend,Alone, alas, alone! you have loved and lived it,Pour no blood on the ashes, for blood can not turn into dew.

It is the same twilight, dear,The hour of love and tearWhen in raiments of shadowsFancies, fears, hopes, and sorrowsTread the path of sunset,While like barks of jetFloat the clouds from east to west.I think of thee, my darling,As in my heart strange chords ringOut melodies of many memories,And half-forgotten reveriesTelling of this or that scene,That is and has beenTrod by thee, Queen of queens.My dreams of thee are ceaseless,As my love of thee is endless;Whether it be sunset or sunrise,Hour of star-song, or bird-criesIt is of thee that I dream,In the heart of my soul's streamThat flows to thy feet, my darling.Dark grows both east and west;Flower-heads droop into rest,As I seek to lay my heart and lovingOn thy star-white breast, my darling,And sink into that pool of sleepThat rises from thy singing's deep,While all are silent, as my desires near thee, my Queen.What peace thy presence breathes!What serenity weaves its wreathes!What myriad wonders touch handsAcross many seas, from many lands,When a thought of theeHeralds thy coming to meBetween palpitating desires, and fragrant dreams.

It is the same twilight, dear,The hour of love and tearWhen in raiments of shadowsFancies, fears, hopes, and sorrowsTread the path of sunset,While like barks of jetFloat the clouds from east to west.

I think of thee, my darling,As in my heart strange chords ringOut melodies of many memories,And half-forgotten reveriesTelling of this or that scene,That is and has beenTrod by thee, Queen of queens.

My dreams of thee are ceaseless,As my love of thee is endless;Whether it be sunset or sunrise,Hour of star-song, or bird-criesIt is of thee that I dream,In the heart of my soul's streamThat flows to thy feet, my darling.

Dark grows both east and west;Flower-heads droop into rest,As I seek to lay my heart and lovingOn thy star-white breast, my darling,And sink into that pool of sleepThat rises from thy singing's deep,While all are silent, as my desires near thee, my Queen.

What peace thy presence breathes!What serenity weaves its wreathes!What myriad wonders touch handsAcross many seas, from many lands,When a thought of theeHeralds thy coming to meBetween palpitating desires, and fragrant dreams.

Weariness the tune of this evening melody,Pain the lute to which I sing;Ah! goddess, why this gray measureIn thy starry harmony?The white conch[4]of the half-moonSilent as though all worship's ceased,No incense-perfume from the forest censerThe breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon.I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea,The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep;Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand,Weariness the tune of this evening melody.

Weariness the tune of this evening melody,Pain the lute to which I sing;Ah! goddess, why this gray measureIn thy starry harmony?

The white conch[4]of the half-moonSilent as though all worship's ceased,No incense-perfume from the forest censerThe breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon.

I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea,The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep;Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand,Weariness the tune of this evening melody.

[4]In a Hindu temple conch shells are blown during or at the close of a worship.

A call, not a song;A command, not a prayer;No mellowing moonlight, but dawn,Frail, fanciful, and fairIn the east of my dream and desire.At the portal of unending desire,Draped in diaphanous dreams,With a whispered word of fireThat quivers and gleamsThrough the clouds of my longing.Longings poignant with pains and tearsEnfold, and fill my soulThat aches with hopes and fearsAs thy chariot wheels' rollSets fire with torches of goldTo my words, my silences, my singing,And to this black pyre of my lifeTo take my being on the wings of thy embracingTo sail away, far away from man's hate and strifeWhere only love reigns on its throne of unending light.

Gently descending dark—Curtain of silenceFrom heaven to earth;The drama of day over,Empty the seats of life,Dead the twilight fire.Curtains of blackWoven from threads of purpleBy the hands of a star,That lone soul weepingOver the dead hoursLaid by mute time in the eternal's grave.In the night of my soulNot even a ray,Nor a mourner present;But a deep dark hollowWhere no fate weepsEven fear is afraid to tread:Fear-forsaken, hollow within hollow,Even silence flees from me—O, the pity of it!

Gently descending dark—Curtain of silenceFrom heaven to earth;

The drama of day over,Empty the seats of life,Dead the twilight fire.

Curtains of blackWoven from threads of purpleBy the hands of a star,

That lone soul weepingOver the dead hoursLaid by mute time in the eternal's grave.

In the night of my soulNot even a ray,Nor a mourner present;

But a deep dark hollowWhere no fate weepsEven fear is afraid to tread:

Fear-forsaken, hollow within hollow,Even silence flees from me—O, the pity of it!

To distil a few golden drops of songThrough the gloom of this hour;To filter true emotionsThrough passion's burning fireWhen the sun bubble-like fades in the west;As our being craves for night's restThat pool of silver in life's forest of distress.To light some pale candlesIn the cavern of a lonely isleAnd draw the wine of dayFrom the must of midnight,Or plant a star-seed in the gray-ploughed eve—So out of the abyss of the blackness of nightDawn's million-colored fountain might spring.

To light some pale candlesIn the cavern of a lonely isleAnd draw the wine of dayFrom the must of midnight,Or plant a star-seed in the gray-ploughed eve—So out of the abyss of the blackness of nightDawn's million-colored fountain might spring.

The silvery beach, a riband around the flowing hair of the sea,Where gleam the foam-flowers garlanded in multitudinous nebulous rings:Here, on the frontier of many worlds and the billow-rocked cradle of eternal sleep,No sound, no music, no silence that a wounded soul can heal.A longing more tempestuous than the craven breeze-possesséd deep,And tears that outweigh the salt of the woeful brine,Yet no sleep dream-robbed, or dream-laden, nor even death's pallid peace;But a ceaseless crying over my heart's forsaken valleysWhere love like a wraith haunts the empty tombs of memory.

A longing more tempestuous than the craven breeze-possesséd deep,And tears that outweigh the salt of the woeful brine,Yet no sleep dream-robbed, or dream-laden, nor even death's pallid peace;But a ceaseless crying over my heart's forsaken valleysWhere love like a wraith haunts the empty tombs of memory.

With the breath of dawnCooling thy feverish brow,And the fading of the last footfall of the starsNo kiss can I bring to thy bedside,Nor caresses of cooling fire, my sweet.Yet through this dreamful silenceThat writes on the rim of the golden lightThe story of our loveWith most eloquent poignancy,More love we pour into each otherThan the tryst of an eternal night.

From her many-colored bow NatureHas hurled her silver arrows of rainAnd slain the hosts of Dark.Jeweled with a single star, the MoonWalks the garden of Night;Higher and higherThrough the star-enflowered pathways of sapphireShe draws her train of silver.

From her many-colored bow NatureHas hurled her silver arrows of rainAnd slain the hosts of Dark.

Jeweled with a single star, the MoonWalks the garden of Night;Higher and higherThrough the star-enflowered pathways of sapphireShe draws her train of silver.

If words fail, song will come;If thought fades, souls will not be dumb;If sound ceases, Silence our song;If Life fails,—Death join our hands.

Like tears shed over a dream,Like sighs that streamIn an unseen nameless wayInto the heart of our lay.It seemed hour on hours,Years like fading flowersScattered their petals and bloomIn a half-lit forest of gloom.The softness of its sounds,Like the coursing of a million houndsOf dream over the glade of sleepWhere tortured silences creep.Exquisite, pain-laden, peaceful,This night most beautiful,What love forsaken by lovingSets his heart a'singing?No torment in it, but tenderness;A liquid star-music of sadnessPours into my soul half asleep;While the willows at my window weep.

Like tears shed over a dream,Like sighs that streamIn an unseen nameless wayInto the heart of our lay.

It seemed hour on hours,Years like fading flowersScattered their petals and bloomIn a half-lit forest of gloom.

The softness of its sounds,Like the coursing of a million houndsOf dream over the glade of sleepWhere tortured silences creep.

Exquisite, pain-laden, peaceful,This night most beautiful,What love forsaken by lovingSets his heart a'singing?

No torment in it, but tenderness;A liquid star-music of sadnessPours into my soul half asleep;While the willows at my window weep.

Flames flickered in the fireplace,As memories on the hearth of life;Two shadows we, watching, brooding,To catch our reflectionIn a non-existent stream.The ghost-witness of it all,The clock brings its proofs;Moments melt into moments,Like notes of sad music,Like a white cerement.Cold memories shroud our life;Speech flees before this;Faces turn away from each other;The fire throws light on them;There, too, flames burn and flicker.

Flames flickered in the fireplace,As memories on the hearth of life;Two shadows we, watching, brooding,To catch our reflectionIn a non-existent stream.

The ghost-witness of it all,The clock brings its proofs;Moments melt into moments,Like notes of sad music,Like a white cerement.

Cold memories shroud our life;Speech flees before this;Faces turn away from each other;The fire throws light on them;There, too, flames burn and flicker.

What world-agony distils its poignancy this day?What pain-laden heart pours out its exhaustless layOf tormenting woe and tortured silences?From the far reaches of the marshlandAlong and beyond the crescent-bed of the sea-sandWhat tempest on the wave's-strings makes its cadences?The distant hills dimmed like dull and forgotten dreamsRaise their shadowy heads where pour in streamsThe tears of the heart-hollowed mourners of the skies;While into the turgid heart of the fens at their feetTurbidly fall and dance sheet upon sheetTo the measureless measure of the wind's empty sighs.No light but a dismal gray, that neither throbs nor quiversOn the torn banks of the heavens' cloud-rivers,But stonily stands still, like death that dies never.Not-dead, but a weeping world bathing its corpses—Its memories, its lost hopes, in regret's hearsesTo be buried in flowerless graves, without incense or prayer.It writhes in agony, rolls out in undulating rills,This rain-melody from the sea-waves to the farthest hills,Thence to the dreary distance lost to hearing or sight.It is all dark and dank, a mourning of earth and heaven,Sorrow-laden, life-weary, long-lost, death-craven,A day lost to time, a light more baleful than night.No dead these, but a living death seeking peaceFrom the furies—their own thoughts—sorrow—surcease,Kissing the lashing wind thinking it to be the breeze.Pour, pour, pour, O relentless, exhaustless pain!To the measure of thine own agony, thy woe's refrain,These desolate streams of thy music, thy pangs of a million seas.

What world-agony distils its poignancy this day?What pain-laden heart pours out its exhaustless layOf tormenting woe and tortured silences?

From the far reaches of the marshlandAlong and beyond the crescent-bed of the sea-sandWhat tempest on the wave's-strings makes its cadences?

The distant hills dimmed like dull and forgotten dreamsRaise their shadowy heads where pour in streamsThe tears of the heart-hollowed mourners of the skies;

While into the turgid heart of the fens at their feetTurbidly fall and dance sheet upon sheetTo the measureless measure of the wind's empty sighs.

No light but a dismal gray, that neither throbs nor quiversOn the torn banks of the heavens' cloud-rivers,But stonily stands still, like death that dies never.

Not-dead, but a weeping world bathing its corpses—Its memories, its lost hopes, in regret's hearsesTo be buried in flowerless graves, without incense or prayer.

It writhes in agony, rolls out in undulating rills,This rain-melody from the sea-waves to the farthest hills,Thence to the dreary distance lost to hearing or sight.

It is all dark and dank, a mourning of earth and heaven,Sorrow-laden, life-weary, long-lost, death-craven,A day lost to time, a light more baleful than night.

No dead these, but a living death seeking peaceFrom the furies—their own thoughts—sorrow—surcease,Kissing the lashing wind thinking it to be the breeze.

Pour, pour, pour, O relentless, exhaustless pain!To the measure of thine own agony, thy woe's refrain,These desolate streams of thy music, thy pangs of a million seas.

The amber west melts into saffron,The east, a misty vision of rose:Like the sun, our souls seek repose.The mountains, empurpled priests,The river, the chant from their lips,Sunlit the pine-candles' crimson tips.At this hour of worshipShadows spread their wings;Silently the breeze-bell rings.The stars put a silver riband round night's tresses,The light fades like a receding songAs fall soundless sounds from Nature'smoon-gong.

At this hour of worshipShadows spread their wings;Silently the breeze-bell rings.The stars put a silver riband round night's tresses,The light fades like a receding songAs fall soundless sounds from Nature'smoon-gong.

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