The Project Gutenberg eBook ofStarved Rock

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofStarved RockThis 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: Starved RockAuthor: Edgar Lee MastersRelease date: July 5, 2014 [eBook #46197]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Dianne Nolan, Bryan Ness andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STARVED ROCK ***

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: Starved RockAuthor: Edgar Lee MastersRelease date: July 5, 2014 [eBook #46197]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Dianne Nolan, Bryan Ness andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)

Title: Starved Rock

Author: Edgar Lee Masters

Release date: July 5, 2014 [eBook #46197]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Dianne Nolan, Bryan Ness andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STARVED ROCK ***

STARVED ROCK

logo

THE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLASATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO

MACMILLAN & CO.,LimitedLONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTAMELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA,Ltd.TORONTO

Author of "Spoon River Anthology," "Songs andSatires," "The Great Valley," "Towardthe Gulf," etc.

New YorkTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY1919All rights reserved

Certain of these poems first appeared inReedy's Mirror,Poetry,The Cosmopolitan,The Yale ReviewandTheNew York Sun.

PAGEStarved Rock1Hymn to the Dead5Creation10The World's Desire13Tyrannosaurus: or Burning Letters16Lord Byron to Doctor Polidori22The Folding Mirror29A Woman of Forty33Wild Birds34A Lady36The Negro Ward40William Shakspeare44For a Play47Chicago49The Wedding Feast54By the Waters of Babylon58The Dream of Tasso60The Christian Statesman69The Lament of Sophonia77At Decapolis79Winged Victory83Oh you Sabbatarians!88Pallas Athene90At Sagamore Hill95To Robert Nichols101Bonnybell: The Butterfly103Hymn to Agni109Epitaph for Us111Botticelli to Simonetta114Flower in the Garden115Inexorable Deities117Arielle119Sounds out of Sorrow121Mournin' for Religion122Thyamis124I Shall Go Down into This Land126Spring Lake128The Barber of Sepo138They'd Never Know Me Now145Nel Mezzo Del Cammin156The Oak Tree160The House on the Hill162Washington Hospital163Neither Faith nor Beauty Can Remain170

As a soul from whom companionships subsideThe meaningless and onsweeping tideOf the river hastening, as it would disownOld ways and places, left this stoneOf sand above the valley, to look downMiles of the valley, hamlet, village, town.*****It is a head-gear of a chief whose head,Down from the implacable brow,Waiting is held belowThe waters, feather deckedWith blossoms blue and red,With ferns and vines;Hiding beneath the waters, head erect,His savage eyes and treacherous designs.*****It is a musing memory and memorialOf geologic agesBefore the floods began to fall;The cenotaph of sorrows, pilgrimagesOf Marquette and LaSalle.The eagles and the Indians left it hereIn solitude, blown cleanOf kindred things: as an oak whose leaves are sereFly over the valley when the winds are keen,And nestle where the earth receivesAnother generation of exhausted leaves.*****Fatigued with age its sleepless eyes look overFenced fields of corn and wheat,Barley and clover.The lowered pulses of the river beatInvisibly by shores that strayIn progress and retreatPast Utica and Ottawa,And past the meadow where the IlliniShouted and danced under the autumn moon,When toddlers and papooses gave a cry,And dogs were barking for the boonOf the hunter home again to clamorous tentsSmoking beneath the evening's copper sky.Later the remnant of the IlliniClimbed up this Rock, to dieOf hunger, thirst, or down its sheer ascentsRushed on the spears of Pottawatomies,And found the peaceWhere thirst and hunger are unknown.*****This is the tragic and the fateful stoneLe Rocher or Starved Rock,A symbol and a paradigm,A sphinx of elegy and battle hymn,Whose lips unlockLife's secret, which is vanishment, defeat,In epic dirges for the racesThat pass and leave no tracesBefore new generations driven in the blastOf Time and Nature blowing round its head.Renewing in the Present what the PastKnew wholly, or in part, so to repeatWarfare, extermination, old things deadBut brought to life againIn Life's immortal pain.*****What Destinies confer,And laughing mockLaSalle, his dreamings stirTo wander here, departThe fortress of Creve Coeur,Of broken heart,For this fort of Starved Rock?After the heart is broken then the cliffWhere vultures flock;And where below its steeps the savage skiffCuts with a pitiless knife the rope let downFor water. From the earth this Indian townVanished and on this Rock the IlliniThirsting, their buckets taken with the knife,Lay down to die.*****This is the land where every generationLets down its buckets for the water of Life.We are the children and the epigoneOf the Illini, the vanished nation.And this starved scarp of stoneIs now the emblem of our tribulation,The inverted cup of our insatiable thirst,The Illini by fate accursed,This land lost to the Pottawatomies,They lost the land to us,Who baffled and idolatrous,And thirsting, spurred by hopeKneel upon aching knees,And with our eager hands draw up the bucketless rope.*****This is the tragic, the symbolic face,Le Rocher or Starved Rock,Round which the eternal turtles drink and swimAnd serpents green and strange,As race comes after race,War after war.This is the sphinx whose Memnon lips breathe dirgesTo empire's wayward star,And over the race's restless urges,Whose lips unlockLife's secret which is vanishment and change.

As a soul from whom companionships subside

The meaningless and onsweeping tide

Of the river hastening, as it would disown

Old ways and places, left this stone

Of sand above the valley, to look down

Miles of the valley, hamlet, village, town.

*****

It is a head-gear of a chief whose head,Down from the implacable brow,Waiting is held belowThe waters, feather deckedWith blossoms blue and red,With ferns and vines;Hiding beneath the waters, head erect,His savage eyes and treacherous designs.

It is a head-gear of a chief whose head,

Down from the implacable brow,

Waiting is held below

The waters, feather decked

With blossoms blue and red,

With ferns and vines;

Hiding beneath the waters, head erect,

His savage eyes and treacherous designs.

*****

It is a musing memory and memorialOf geologic agesBefore the floods began to fall;The cenotaph of sorrows, pilgrimagesOf Marquette and LaSalle.The eagles and the Indians left it hereIn solitude, blown cleanOf kindred things: as an oak whose leaves are sereFly over the valley when the winds are keen,And nestle where the earth receivesAnother generation of exhausted leaves.

It is a musing memory and memorial

Of geologic ages

Before the floods began to fall;

The cenotaph of sorrows, pilgrimages

Of Marquette and LaSalle.

The eagles and the Indians left it here

In solitude, blown clean

Of kindred things: as an oak whose leaves are sere

Fly over the valley when the winds are keen,

And nestle where the earth receives

Another generation of exhausted leaves.

*****

Fatigued with age its sleepless eyes look overFenced fields of corn and wheat,Barley and clover.The lowered pulses of the river beatInvisibly by shores that strayIn progress and retreatPast Utica and Ottawa,And past the meadow where the IlliniShouted and danced under the autumn moon,When toddlers and papooses gave a cry,And dogs were barking for the boonOf the hunter home again to clamorous tentsSmoking beneath the evening's copper sky.Later the remnant of the IlliniClimbed up this Rock, to dieOf hunger, thirst, or down its sheer ascentsRushed on the spears of Pottawatomies,And found the peaceWhere thirst and hunger are unknown.

Fatigued with age its sleepless eyes look over

Fenced fields of corn and wheat,

Barley and clover.

The lowered pulses of the river beat

Invisibly by shores that stray

In progress and retreat

Past Utica and Ottawa,

And past the meadow where the Illini

Shouted and danced under the autumn moon,

When toddlers and papooses gave a cry,

And dogs were barking for the boon

Of the hunter home again to clamorous tents

Smoking beneath the evening's copper sky.

Later the remnant of the Illini

Climbed up this Rock, to die

Of hunger, thirst, or down its sheer ascents

Rushed on the spears of Pottawatomies,

And found the peace

Where thirst and hunger are unknown.

*****

This is the tragic and the fateful stoneLe Rocher or Starved Rock,A symbol and a paradigm,A sphinx of elegy and battle hymn,Whose lips unlockLife's secret, which is vanishment, defeat,In epic dirges for the racesThat pass and leave no tracesBefore new generations driven in the blastOf Time and Nature blowing round its head.Renewing in the Present what the PastKnew wholly, or in part, so to repeatWarfare, extermination, old things deadBut brought to life againIn Life's immortal pain.

This is the tragic and the fateful stone

Le Rocher or Starved Rock,

A symbol and a paradigm,

A sphinx of elegy and battle hymn,

Whose lips unlock

Life's secret, which is vanishment, defeat,

In epic dirges for the races

That pass and leave no traces

Before new generations driven in the blast

Of Time and Nature blowing round its head.

Renewing in the Present what the Past

Knew wholly, or in part, so to repeat

Warfare, extermination, old things dead

But brought to life again

In Life's immortal pain.

*****

What Destinies confer,And laughing mockLaSalle, his dreamings stirTo wander here, departThe fortress of Creve Coeur,Of broken heart,For this fort of Starved Rock?After the heart is broken then the cliffWhere vultures flock;And where below its steeps the savage skiffCuts with a pitiless knife the rope let downFor water. From the earth this Indian townVanished and on this Rock the IlliniThirsting, their buckets taken with the knife,Lay down to die.

What Destinies confer,

And laughing mock

LaSalle, his dreamings stir

To wander here, depart

The fortress of Creve Coeur,

Of broken heart,

For this fort of Starved Rock?

After the heart is broken then the cliff

Where vultures flock;

And where below its steeps the savage skiff

Cuts with a pitiless knife the rope let down

For water. From the earth this Indian town

Vanished and on this Rock the Illini

Thirsting, their buckets taken with the knife,

Lay down to die.

*****

This is the land where every generationLets down its buckets for the water of Life.We are the children and the epigoneOf the Illini, the vanished nation.And this starved scarp of stoneIs now the emblem of our tribulation,The inverted cup of our insatiable thirst,The Illini by fate accursed,This land lost to the Pottawatomies,They lost the land to us,Who baffled and idolatrous,And thirsting, spurred by hopeKneel upon aching knees,And with our eager hands draw up the bucketless rope.

This is the land where every generation

Lets down its buckets for the water of Life.

We are the children and the epigone

Of the Illini, the vanished nation.

And this starved scarp of stone

Is now the emblem of our tribulation,

The inverted cup of our insatiable thirst,

The Illini by fate accursed,

This land lost to the Pottawatomies,

They lost the land to us,

Who baffled and idolatrous,

And thirsting, spurred by hope

Kneel upon aching knees,

And with our eager hands draw up the bucketless rope.

*****

This is the tragic, the symbolic face,Le Rocher or Starved Rock,Round which the eternal turtles drink and swimAnd serpents green and strange,As race comes after race,War after war.This is the sphinx whose Memnon lips breathe dirgesTo empire's wayward star,And over the race's restless urges,Whose lips unlockLife's secret which is vanishment and change.

This is the tragic, the symbolic face,

Le Rocher or Starved Rock,

Round which the eternal turtles drink and swim

And serpents green and strange,

As race comes after race,

War after war.

This is the sphinx whose Memnon lips breathe dirges

To empire's wayward star,

And over the race's restless urges,

Whose lips unlock

Life's secret which is vanishment and change.

O, you who have gone from the ways of cities,From the peopled places, the streets of strife,From offices, markets, rooms, retreats,Pastoral ways, hamlets, everywhere from the earth,And have made of the emptiness of your departureA land, a country, a realm all your own,Set above the hills of our vision, an empireWithin, around, above our empire of days,Of pain and clamorous tongues;An empire which out of a sovereign silenceStretches its power over the restless multitudeOf our thoughts, and the ceaseless music of our beings,And surrounds us even as the air we breathe—O ye majestic Dead, hear our hymn!*****The clown, the wastrel and the fool in lifeAre lifted up by you, O Death!The least of these who has entered inYour realm, O Death,Is greater than the greatest of us,And by a transfiguration has been clothedWith the glory and the wonder of nature.He has drunk of the purple cup of apotheosis,And passed through the mystical change,And accomplished the cycle of being.He has risen from the lowlands of earthInto the air on wings of breath.He has rejected the shell of the body, feet and hands,He has become one with the majesty of Time,And taken the kingdom of triumphWhether it be cessation or bliss.For he has entered into the kingdom of primal powers,Being or ceasing to be,Even as he has re-entered the womb of nature.Or he has found peace,States of wisdom, or vision—Hail! realm of Silence,Whence comes the unheard symphony too deep for strings,Hail, infinite Light,Darkness to eyes of flesh—All hail!*****What are we, the living, beside you the dead?We of daily hunger, daily food, daily ablutions,The daily rising and lying down,Waking and sleep;The daily care of the body's needs;And daily desire to pass the gift of life;And daily fears of the morrow to come;And daily pains for things that are gone;And daily longing for things that fly us;And sorrow that follows wherever we go;And love that mocks us, and peace that breaks,And shame that tracks us, and want that gnaws.But O ye Dead! Ye great ones,Triumphant over these, releasedFrom the duties of dust, all chains of desire,And made inhabitants of breathless spaces,Immanent in a realm of calm,Rulers of a sphere of tideless air,Victors returned from the war of death in life,Victors over death in death!*****For the growing soul turns inEven as the seed turns in on itself,And becomes hard, transparent,An encased life, condensedIn the process of saving itselfFrom rains that beat in the fall,And frosts that descend from skies grown cold.And we who shed away old thoughts and hopes,Days and dreams of lifeTurn in, grow clear like grains of rice,Until the realm of deathIs as snow delivered landLuring the seed—And it becomes our home, our country,Our native land that calls us backFrom this sojourn of adventure,And place of profit;For O ye majestic Dead, your absence draws us,If it be naught but absence still you summon,Your absence has become a very Presence,A Power, a hierarchy of Life!*****Even as leaves enrich the earthLayer on layer,Even as bodies of men enrich the soilGeneration on generation,So do the spirits of those departedEnrich our soil of lifeWith delights, wisdoms, purest hopes,And shapes of beauty.But oh beyond all these, is our life enrichedWith exalted contemplationsOf you, O glorious Dead,Who have eaten of the tree of life and become gods,Friendly divinities to us who remain,Dear familiars, as you were with usFathers, children, lovers, friends.Ye who sense with the inner eye,Since nothing in our days of livingMoves uncolored of your splendors,Presences to which all things relate!*****O realm of the Dead,Black Mountain, if you be,Which darkens heaven,And shadows earth,Round which our spirits flutterLike startled moths.Black mountain with whose blacknessThe light of life is mixed,Whereof all hues are made:All thoughts, all lofty wanderings of the soul,All meanings, divinationsOf briefest hours, and frailest joys,All wonders of the spectrum of the soulOut of life and death!*****Realm of the Dead! Supreme RealityAll Hail!

O, you who have gone from the ways of cities,

From the peopled places, the streets of strife,

From offices, markets, rooms, retreats,

Pastoral ways, hamlets, everywhere from the earth,

And have made of the emptiness of your departure

A land, a country, a realm all your own,

Set above the hills of our vision, an empire

Within, around, above our empire of days,

Of pain and clamorous tongues;

An empire which out of a sovereign silence

Stretches its power over the restless multitude

Of our thoughts, and the ceaseless music of our beings,

And surrounds us even as the air we breathe—

O ye majestic Dead, hear our hymn!

*****

The clown, the wastrel and the fool in lifeAre lifted up by you, O Death!The least of these who has entered inYour realm, O Death,Is greater than the greatest of us,And by a transfiguration has been clothedWith the glory and the wonder of nature.He has drunk of the purple cup of apotheosis,And passed through the mystical change,And accomplished the cycle of being.He has risen from the lowlands of earthInto the air on wings of breath.He has rejected the shell of the body, feet and hands,He has become one with the majesty of Time,And taken the kingdom of triumphWhether it be cessation or bliss.For he has entered into the kingdom of primal powers,Being or ceasing to be,Even as he has re-entered the womb of nature.Or he has found peace,States of wisdom, or vision—Hail! realm of Silence,Whence comes the unheard symphony too deep for strings,Hail, infinite Light,Darkness to eyes of flesh—All hail!

The clown, the wastrel and the fool in life

Are lifted up by you, O Death!

The least of these who has entered in

Your realm, O Death,

Is greater than the greatest of us,

And by a transfiguration has been clothed

With the glory and the wonder of nature.

He has drunk of the purple cup of apotheosis,

And passed through the mystical change,

And accomplished the cycle of being.

He has risen from the lowlands of earth

Into the air on wings of breath.

He has rejected the shell of the body, feet and hands,

He has become one with the majesty of Time,

And taken the kingdom of triumph

Whether it be cessation or bliss.

For he has entered into the kingdom of primal powers,

Being or ceasing to be,

Even as he has re-entered the womb of nature.

Or he has found peace,

States of wisdom, or vision—

Hail! realm of Silence,

Whence comes the unheard symphony too deep for strings,

Hail, infinite Light,

Darkness to eyes of flesh—

All hail!

*****

What are we, the living, beside you the dead?We of daily hunger, daily food, daily ablutions,The daily rising and lying down,Waking and sleep;The daily care of the body's needs;And daily desire to pass the gift of life;And daily fears of the morrow to come;And daily pains for things that are gone;And daily longing for things that fly us;And sorrow that follows wherever we go;And love that mocks us, and peace that breaks,And shame that tracks us, and want that gnaws.But O ye Dead! Ye great ones,Triumphant over these, releasedFrom the duties of dust, all chains of desire,And made inhabitants of breathless spaces,Immanent in a realm of calm,Rulers of a sphere of tideless air,Victors returned from the war of death in life,Victors over death in death!

What are we, the living, beside you the dead?

We of daily hunger, daily food, daily ablutions,

The daily rising and lying down,

Waking and sleep;

The daily care of the body's needs;

And daily desire to pass the gift of life;

And daily fears of the morrow to come;

And daily pains for things that are gone;

And daily longing for things that fly us;

And sorrow that follows wherever we go;

And love that mocks us, and peace that breaks,

And shame that tracks us, and want that gnaws.

But O ye Dead! Ye great ones,

Triumphant over these, released

From the duties of dust, all chains of desire,

And made inhabitants of breathless spaces,

Immanent in a realm of calm,

Rulers of a sphere of tideless air,

Victors returned from the war of death in life,

Victors over death in death!

*****

For the growing soul turns inEven as the seed turns in on itself,And becomes hard, transparent,An encased life, condensedIn the process of saving itselfFrom rains that beat in the fall,And frosts that descend from skies grown cold.And we who shed away old thoughts and hopes,Days and dreams of lifeTurn in, grow clear like grains of rice,Until the realm of deathIs as snow delivered landLuring the seed—And it becomes our home, our country,Our native land that calls us backFrom this sojourn of adventure,And place of profit;For O ye majestic Dead, your absence draws us,If it be naught but absence still you summon,Your absence has become a very Presence,A Power, a hierarchy of Life!

For the growing soul turns in

Even as the seed turns in on itself,

And becomes hard, transparent,

An encased life, condensed

In the process of saving itself

From rains that beat in the fall,

And frosts that descend from skies grown cold.

And we who shed away old thoughts and hopes,

Days and dreams of life

Turn in, grow clear like grains of rice,

Until the realm of death

Is as snow delivered land

Luring the seed—

And it becomes our home, our country,

Our native land that calls us back

From this sojourn of adventure,

And place of profit;

For O ye majestic Dead, your absence draws us,

If it be naught but absence still you summon,

Your absence has become a very Presence,

A Power, a hierarchy of Life!

*****

Even as leaves enrich the earthLayer on layer,Even as bodies of men enrich the soilGeneration on generation,So do the spirits of those departedEnrich our soil of lifeWith delights, wisdoms, purest hopes,And shapes of beauty.But oh beyond all these, is our life enrichedWith exalted contemplationsOf you, O glorious Dead,Who have eaten of the tree of life and become gods,Friendly divinities to us who remain,Dear familiars, as you were with usFathers, children, lovers, friends.Ye who sense with the inner eye,Since nothing in our days of livingMoves uncolored of your splendors,Presences to which all things relate!

Even as leaves enrich the earth

Layer on layer,

Even as bodies of men enrich the soil

Generation on generation,

So do the spirits of those departed

Enrich our soil of life

With delights, wisdoms, purest hopes,

And shapes of beauty.

But oh beyond all these, is our life enriched

With exalted contemplations

Of you, O glorious Dead,

Who have eaten of the tree of life and become gods,

Friendly divinities to us who remain,

Dear familiars, as you were with us

Fathers, children, lovers, friends.

Ye who sense with the inner eye,

Since nothing in our days of living

Moves uncolored of your splendors,

Presences to which all things relate!

*****

O realm of the Dead,Black Mountain, if you be,Which darkens heaven,And shadows earth,Round which our spirits flutterLike startled moths.Black mountain with whose blacknessThe light of life is mixed,Whereof all hues are made:All thoughts, all lofty wanderings of the soul,All meanings, divinationsOf briefest hours, and frailest joys,All wonders of the spectrum of the soulOut of life and death!

O realm of the Dead,

Black Mountain, if you be,

Which darkens heaven,

And shadows earth,

Round which our spirits flutter

Like startled moths.

Black mountain with whose blackness

The light of life is mixed,

Whereof all hues are made:

All thoughts, all lofty wanderings of the soul,

All meanings, divinations

Of briefest hours, and frailest joys,

All wonders of the spectrum of the soul

Out of life and death!

*****

Realm of the Dead! Supreme RealityAll Hail!

Realm of the Dead! Supreme Reality

All Hail!

Passion flower unfolding in darkness!Glow-worm under a spray of lilac!Flame on the altar of love!Beloved in your chamber!The phoenix moon rising from the ashes of daySpreads her wings of saffron fireAbove the enchanted garden.And I brush away the leaves of nightTo find the star of my love.I part the curtains about the altar,I enter your chamber, beloved.*****I have entered your chamber, beloved,I have found my star.Between kisses and whispersAnd the silken touch of fleshBreast to breast, lips to lips,Our souls are seeking and drifting!As an albatross hovers and fliesWith the running sea ...Powers of body, powers of spirit,DivinitiesAwakened never before,Hidden in nerves asleep, in veins without a tideFlow through us.I give you my life, beloved,For life of you, given to me—O bride of love!*****O hair of fire! O breasts of light,Like double stars!O voice like a lute that whispersAt midnight, in a bower of roses!O body luminous as the nebulous wasteAcross the midnight,Pour on my breast, my hands, my browThe sacred fire,As our flesh becomes oneUpborne by your breasts,White as bridal blossomsWhere there is yet no milk,But only eddying bloodCircling in whirlpools of delirious ecstasyIn time with the blood of me.Our lips together, our bodies togetherWhile the yearning urn of porphyryWaits to drink the silver stream,And thirsts to drink,And poises like a gold fish waitingFor the stream of silver fire....*****But oh, hands of me that clasp your sunny head,Drawing it close to my breast,In rapture of its beauty!O temple of your spirit!Spirit of you which I woo and would win,In rapture without will,In rapture blind, save for the inspired urge,In rapture seeking further rapture,In rapture to wed your spirit fully,And all your spirit, which my spiritThrough the unity of flesh would reachAnd win, and keep—Bride of lightning!Bride of Life!*****As when the butterfly slowly moves his wingsDrawing from the virgin core of honeysucklesThe sweetest drop of dew:—So pause his wings spread wideWhen all is gained.*****Goddess of the white dawn,Let my beloved sleep—Robins that sing at dawn,Wake not my beloved!I sleep with my beloved,And she sleeps with me,And a life sleeps nowThat will wake!

Passion flower unfolding in darkness!

Glow-worm under a spray of lilac!

Flame on the altar of love!

Beloved in your chamber!

The phoenix moon rising from the ashes of day

Spreads her wings of saffron fire

Above the enchanted garden.

And I brush away the leaves of night

To find the star of my love.

I part the curtains about the altar,

I enter your chamber, beloved.

*****

I have entered your chamber, beloved,I have found my star.Between kisses and whispersAnd the silken touch of fleshBreast to breast, lips to lips,Our souls are seeking and drifting!As an albatross hovers and fliesWith the running sea ...Powers of body, powers of spirit,DivinitiesAwakened never before,Hidden in nerves asleep, in veins without a tideFlow through us.I give you my life, beloved,For life of you, given to me—O bride of love!

I have entered your chamber, beloved,

I have found my star.

Between kisses and whispers

And the silken touch of flesh

Breast to breast, lips to lips,

Our souls are seeking and drifting!

As an albatross hovers and flies

With the running sea ...

Powers of body, powers of spirit,

Divinities

Awakened never before,

Hidden in nerves asleep, in veins without a tide

Flow through us.

I give you my life, beloved,

For life of you, given to me—

O bride of love!

*****

O hair of fire! O breasts of light,Like double stars!O voice like a lute that whispersAt midnight, in a bower of roses!O body luminous as the nebulous wasteAcross the midnight,Pour on my breast, my hands, my browThe sacred fire,As our flesh becomes oneUpborne by your breasts,White as bridal blossomsWhere there is yet no milk,But only eddying bloodCircling in whirlpools of delirious ecstasyIn time with the blood of me.Our lips together, our bodies togetherWhile the yearning urn of porphyryWaits to drink the silver stream,And thirsts to drink,And poises like a gold fish waitingFor the stream of silver fire....

O hair of fire! O breasts of light,

Like double stars!

O voice like a lute that whispers

At midnight, in a bower of roses!

O body luminous as the nebulous waste

Across the midnight,

Pour on my breast, my hands, my brow

The sacred fire,

As our flesh becomes one

Upborne by your breasts,

White as bridal blossoms

Where there is yet no milk,

But only eddying blood

Circling in whirlpools of delirious ecstasy

In time with the blood of me.

Our lips together, our bodies together

While the yearning urn of porphyry

Waits to drink the silver stream,

And thirsts to drink,

And poises like a gold fish waiting

For the stream of silver fire....

*****

But oh, hands of me that clasp your sunny head,Drawing it close to my breast,In rapture of its beauty!O temple of your spirit!Spirit of you which I woo and would win,In rapture without will,In rapture blind, save for the inspired urge,In rapture seeking further rapture,In rapture to wed your spirit fully,And all your spirit, which my spiritThrough the unity of flesh would reachAnd win, and keep—Bride of lightning!Bride of Life!

But oh, hands of me that clasp your sunny head,

Drawing it close to my breast,

In rapture of its beauty!

O temple of your spirit!

Spirit of you which I woo and would win,

In rapture without will,

In rapture blind, save for the inspired urge,

In rapture seeking further rapture,

In rapture to wed your spirit fully,

And all your spirit, which my spirit

Through the unity of flesh would reach

And win, and keep—

Bride of lightning!

Bride of Life!

*****

As when the butterfly slowly moves his wingsDrawing from the virgin core of honeysucklesThe sweetest drop of dew:—So pause his wings spread wideWhen all is gained.

As when the butterfly slowly moves his wings

Drawing from the virgin core of honeysuckles

The sweetest drop of dew:—

So pause his wings spread wide

When all is gained.

*****

Goddess of the white dawn,Let my beloved sleep—Robins that sing at dawn,Wake not my beloved!I sleep with my beloved,And she sleeps with me,And a life sleeps nowThat will wake!

Goddess of the white dawn,

Let my beloved sleep—

Robins that sing at dawn,

Wake not my beloved!

I sleep with my beloved,

And she sleeps with me,

And a life sleeps now

That will wake!

At Philae, in the temple of Isis,The fruitful and terrible goddess,Under a running panel of the sacred ibis,Is pictured the dead body of OsirisWaiting the resurrection morn.And a priest is pouring water blue as irisOut of a pitcher on the stalk of cornThat from the body of the god is growing,Before the rising tides of the Nile are flowing.And over the pictured body is this inscriptionIn the temple of Isis, the Egyptian:This is the nameless one, whom Isis decreesNot to be named, the god of life and yearning,Osiris of the mysteries,Who springs from the waters ever returning.At the gate of the Lord's house,Ezekiel, the prophet, beheld the abomination of Babylon:Women with sorrow on their browsIn lamentation, weepingFor the bereavement of Ishtar and for Tammuz sleeping,And for the summer gone.Tammuz has passed belowTo the house of darkness and woe,Where dust lies on the bolt and on the floorBehind the winter's iron door;And Ishtar has followed him,Leaving the meadows gray, the orchards dimWith driving rain and mist,And winds that mourn.Ishtar has vanished, and all life has ceased;No flower blossoms and no child is born.But not as Mary Magdalen came to the tomb,The women in the gardens of Adonis,Crying, "The winter sun is yet upon us,"Planted in baskets seeds of various bloom,Which sprouted like frail hopes, then wilted downFor the baskets' shallow soil.Then for a beauty dead, a futile toil,For leaves that withered, yellow and brown,From the gardens of Adonis into the sea,They cast the baskets of their hope away:A ritual of the things that cease to be,Brief loveliness and swift decay.And O ye holy women, who at DelphiRoused from sleep the cradled Dionysius,Who with an April eyeLooked up at them,Before the adorable god, the infant Jesus,Was found at Bethlehem!For at Bethlehem the groaning world's desireFor spring, that burned from Egypt up to Tyre,And from Tyre to Athens beheld an epiphany of fire:The flesh fade flower-like while the soul kept breathBeyond the body's death,Even as nature which revives;In consummation of the faithThat Tammuz, the Soul, survives,And is not sacrificedIn the darkness where the dustLies on the bolt and on the floor,And passes not behind the iron doorSave it be followed by the lover Christ,The Ishtar of the faithful trust,Who knocks and says: "This soul, which winter knewIn life, in death at last,Finds spring through me, and waters fresh and blue.For lo, the winter is past;The rain is over and gone.I open! It is dawn!"

At Philae, in the temple of Isis,

The fruitful and terrible goddess,

Under a running panel of the sacred ibis,

Is pictured the dead body of Osiris

Waiting the resurrection morn.

And a priest is pouring water blue as iris

Out of a pitcher on the stalk of corn

That from the body of the god is growing,

Before the rising tides of the Nile are flowing.

And over the pictured body is this inscription

In the temple of Isis, the Egyptian:

This is the nameless one, whom Isis decrees

Not to be named, the god of life and yearning,

Osiris of the mysteries,

Who springs from the waters ever returning.

At the gate of the Lord's house,Ezekiel, the prophet, beheld the abomination of Babylon:Women with sorrow on their browsIn lamentation, weepingFor the bereavement of Ishtar and for Tammuz sleeping,And for the summer gone.Tammuz has passed belowTo the house of darkness and woe,Where dust lies on the bolt and on the floorBehind the winter's iron door;And Ishtar has followed him,Leaving the meadows gray, the orchards dimWith driving rain and mist,And winds that mourn.Ishtar has vanished, and all life has ceased;No flower blossoms and no child is born.

At the gate of the Lord's house,

Ezekiel, the prophet, beheld the abomination of Babylon:

Women with sorrow on their brows

In lamentation, weeping

For the bereavement of Ishtar and for Tammuz sleeping,

And for the summer gone.

Tammuz has passed below

To the house of darkness and woe,

Where dust lies on the bolt and on the floor

Behind the winter's iron door;

And Ishtar has followed him,

Leaving the meadows gray, the orchards dim

With driving rain and mist,

And winds that mourn.

Ishtar has vanished, and all life has ceased;

No flower blossoms and no child is born.

But not as Mary Magdalen came to the tomb,The women in the gardens of Adonis,Crying, "The winter sun is yet upon us,"Planted in baskets seeds of various bloom,Which sprouted like frail hopes, then wilted downFor the baskets' shallow soil.Then for a beauty dead, a futile toil,For leaves that withered, yellow and brown,From the gardens of Adonis into the sea,They cast the baskets of their hope away:A ritual of the things that cease to be,Brief loveliness and swift decay.

But not as Mary Magdalen came to the tomb,

The women in the gardens of Adonis,

Crying, "The winter sun is yet upon us,"

Planted in baskets seeds of various bloom,

Which sprouted like frail hopes, then wilted down

For the baskets' shallow soil.

Then for a beauty dead, a futile toil,

For leaves that withered, yellow and brown,

From the gardens of Adonis into the sea,

They cast the baskets of their hope away:

A ritual of the things that cease to be,

Brief loveliness and swift decay.

And O ye holy women, who at DelphiRoused from sleep the cradled Dionysius,Who with an April eyeLooked up at them,Before the adorable god, the infant Jesus,Was found at Bethlehem!

And O ye holy women, who at Delphi

Roused from sleep the cradled Dionysius,

Who with an April eye

Looked up at them,

Before the adorable god, the infant Jesus,

Was found at Bethlehem!

For at Bethlehem the groaning world's desireFor spring, that burned from Egypt up to Tyre,And from Tyre to Athens beheld an epiphany of fire:The flesh fade flower-like while the soul kept breathBeyond the body's death,Even as nature which revives;In consummation of the faithThat Tammuz, the Soul, survives,And is not sacrificedIn the darkness where the dustLies on the bolt and on the floor,And passes not behind the iron doorSave it be followed by the lover Christ,The Ishtar of the faithful trust,Who knocks and says: "This soul, which winter knewIn life, in death at last,Finds spring through me, and waters fresh and blue.For lo, the winter is past;The rain is over and gone.I open! It is dawn!"

For at Bethlehem the groaning world's desire

For spring, that burned from Egypt up to Tyre,

And from Tyre to Athens beheld an epiphany of fire:

The flesh fade flower-like while the soul kept breath

Beyond the body's death,

Even as nature which revives;

In consummation of the faith

That Tammuz, the Soul, survives,

And is not sacrificed

In the darkness where the dust

Lies on the bolt and on the floor,

And passes not behind the iron door

Save it be followed by the lover Christ,

The Ishtar of the faithful trust,

Who knocks and says: "This soul, which winter knew

In life, in death at last,

Finds spring through me, and waters fresh and blue.

For lo, the winter is past;

The rain is over and gone.

I open! It is dawn!"

Trees of the forest ground to pulp,Rolled into sheets and rabbit trackedWith nut-gall or with nigrosine—Then look at spirits thrill, or gulpA lost delight, a rising spleenFor love that grew intense or slacked ...Here are the letters, torn in bits,Crammed in the basket, look how full!Our little fireplace scarce admitsSo much that once was beautiful.Here where we sat and dreamed togetherIn March, and now when we should beFriends in the glory of June weather,We tear our letters up—oh, me!Call Jane to take the basket down,And throw these on the furnace fire.Let ashes drift about the townOf what was our desire!What are we to the gods, I wonder?Perhaps two crickets in the grass,Who meet and drop their stomachs' plunderTo touch antennæ as they pass.So kissing in such soul communionThe gardener's step is heard, and quickThe crickets break their spirits' union,Hide under logs or bits of brick.Does guilty conscience stir the crickets?What does he care? Why not a snap.He's trimming out the hazel thicketsFor a tennis court and shooting trap....You are afraid of God! Not that?Some step has frightened you, I know.Well, then it's gossip the alley-cat.At least our hands grow cold as snow,Relax their touch, and then we come,Tear up the letters, sit and stareSome moments, wholly dumb!If we are crickets, still our breastsContain for us things real enough.The gods may laugh, their interestsAre what? I wonder—not the loveSuch as we knew. To be a godThrough love is what I hoped, and riseAbove the level of the clod.They said it can't be, who are wise,That's not the way to win the prize:Or if it be, I don't know how;Or you are not the one with whomI might have won it. Well, my browIs turned into a whitened tombWith all uncleanness in it; dreamsRotting away with hopes as fair ...To me, the liver, nothing seemsWon that is lost. I can't invert,Sophisticate the facts, or swearMy evil good. A hurt's a hurt,A loss a loss, a scar a scar,A spirit frustrate is inert.To stretch your hands toward a starAnd lose the star, or have it dieTo ashes like a rocket, altersThe aspect of your being's sky.You've learned no praise from earthly psaltersCan win the star, or else you've learnedThe star you touched was quickly turnedTo ashes while it burned.Hell! Let us face it. Here it isWe had some walks, some precious talks,Some hours of paradise and bliss.Our blossom opened, we inhaledAll of its fragrance, now I scowlBecause our wonder blossom paledFor lack of water in the bowlTipped over by the alley-cat,Or what not, change, distrust or fear;Your pride, your will, a hovering gnatI struck at striking you, a blearOf eyes a moment, making blindMy vision, yours.... Or there's the age,The age is frightful to my mind,Nothing to do but stand it—wellI sit here and say "hell."For it's really hell to have a will,It's hell to hope and to believe,That good can swallow up the ill,That gods are working, will achieve.They may be, yet they disregardOur cricket feelings, so we shrillSonnets and elegies round the yard...Let's talk a bit of chlorophyll:The sun was useless for our life,No wine, no beef, no watercressUntil this chlorophyll grew rifeMillions of years since, more or less.And if no wine or beef, no love,No pulp, no paper, nigrosine,No letters which are made thereof.Think! All we found and lost has beenThrough chlorophyll.And just supposeNature should lose the secret powerFor making chlorophyll, the roseWe cherished would not come to flower.No other man and woman moreWould burn their letters grieving—yetWe may be rising, for who knowsThere may be something vastly betterThan love to flame and flay and fret,And hate this letter and that letter,Once rid of chlorophyll, in caseA subtler substance could be givenTo this poor globe out of heaven—We are a weak, if growing race!Here, then, I think is a moral for us,Another is tyrannosaurus—Tyrannosaurus, what of him,The monarch of this world one time,Back in the æons wet and dim?He faded like a pantomime.And he could, well, step over trees,Crunch up bowlders like cracking nuts,Flip horses away like bumble-bees,Stretch out in valleys as if they were ruts;And hide a man in his nostril's hole,And crush young forestry just like weeds.He came and went, and what's your soul,And what is mine with their crying needs?And love that seemed eternal once,Given of God to lift, inspire,Well—now do we see? Was I dunceDrunk with the wine of soul's desire?Who made that wine, why did I drink it?Why did I want it? What's the game?Are spirits chaos? I scarce can think it.Why fly for the light and get the flame?Is love for souls of us chlorophyllThat makes us eatable, sweet and crispFor Gods that raise us to feed their fill?Who lives, the dreamer, the will o' the wisp?Do Gods live, vanish, return again?Who in the devil has love or luck?One thing is true, there's rapture and pain.As for the rest, I pass the buck.Something occurs, and God knows what,Tyrannosaurus fades like a ghost.That throws a light on our little lot,Love that is won, love that is lost.Even a hundred years from now,If this poor earth is rolling still,Hearts will quiver, break or bow—Provided the plants have chlorophyll.Oh well! Oh hell! We must be heroic,And it helps to scan a million of years.And to think of monstrous beasts mesoic,Brightens, though it dries no tears.I'll dream for life of our walks by the river—That was March and it's now July.And this remains: I'll love you forever—Burn up the letters now—Good by!

Trees of the forest ground to pulp,

Rolled into sheets and rabbit tracked

With nut-gall or with nigrosine—

Then look at spirits thrill, or gulp

A lost delight, a rising spleen

For love that grew intense or slacked ...

Here are the letters, torn in bits,Crammed in the basket, look how full!Our little fireplace scarce admitsSo much that once was beautiful.Here where we sat and dreamed togetherIn March, and now when we should beFriends in the glory of June weather,We tear our letters up—oh, me!Call Jane to take the basket down,And throw these on the furnace fire.Let ashes drift about the townOf what was our desire!

Here are the letters, torn in bits,

Crammed in the basket, look how full!

Our little fireplace scarce admits

So much that once was beautiful.

Here where we sat and dreamed together

In March, and now when we should be

Friends in the glory of June weather,

We tear our letters up—oh, me!

Call Jane to take the basket down,

And throw these on the furnace fire.

Let ashes drift about the town

Of what was our desire!

What are we to the gods, I wonder?Perhaps two crickets in the grass,Who meet and drop their stomachs' plunderTo touch antennæ as they pass.So kissing in such soul communionThe gardener's step is heard, and quickThe crickets break their spirits' union,Hide under logs or bits of brick.Does guilty conscience stir the crickets?What does he care? Why not a snap.He's trimming out the hazel thicketsFor a tennis court and shooting trap....You are afraid of God! Not that?Some step has frightened you, I know.Well, then it's gossip the alley-cat.At least our hands grow cold as snow,Relax their touch, and then we come,Tear up the letters, sit and stareSome moments, wholly dumb!

What are we to the gods, I wonder?

Perhaps two crickets in the grass,

Who meet and drop their stomachs' plunder

To touch antennæ as they pass.

So kissing in such soul communion

The gardener's step is heard, and quick

The crickets break their spirits' union,

Hide under logs or bits of brick.

Does guilty conscience stir the crickets?

What does he care? Why not a snap.

He's trimming out the hazel thickets

For a tennis court and shooting trap....

You are afraid of God! Not that?

Some step has frightened you, I know.

Well, then it's gossip the alley-cat.

At least our hands grow cold as snow,

Relax their touch, and then we come,

Tear up the letters, sit and stare

Some moments, wholly dumb!

If we are crickets, still our breastsContain for us things real enough.The gods may laugh, their interestsAre what? I wonder—not the loveSuch as we knew. To be a godThrough love is what I hoped, and riseAbove the level of the clod.They said it can't be, who are wise,That's not the way to win the prize:Or if it be, I don't know how;Or you are not the one with whomI might have won it. Well, my browIs turned into a whitened tombWith all uncleanness in it; dreamsRotting away with hopes as fair ...To me, the liver, nothing seemsWon that is lost. I can't invert,Sophisticate the facts, or swearMy evil good. A hurt's a hurt,A loss a loss, a scar a scar,A spirit frustrate is inert.To stretch your hands toward a starAnd lose the star, or have it dieTo ashes like a rocket, altersThe aspect of your being's sky.You've learned no praise from earthly psaltersCan win the star, or else you've learnedThe star you touched was quickly turnedTo ashes while it burned.

If we are crickets, still our breasts

Contain for us things real enough.

The gods may laugh, their interests

Are what? I wonder—not the love

Such as we knew. To be a god

Through love is what I hoped, and rise

Above the level of the clod.

They said it can't be, who are wise,

That's not the way to win the prize:

Or if it be, I don't know how;

Or you are not the one with whom

I might have won it. Well, my brow

Is turned into a whitened tomb

With all uncleanness in it; dreams

Rotting away with hopes as fair ...

To me, the liver, nothing seems

Won that is lost. I can't invert,

Sophisticate the facts, or swear

My evil good. A hurt's a hurt,

A loss a loss, a scar a scar,

A spirit frustrate is inert.

To stretch your hands toward a star

And lose the star, or have it die

To ashes like a rocket, alters

The aspect of your being's sky.

You've learned no praise from earthly psalters

Can win the star, or else you've learned

The star you touched was quickly turned

To ashes while it burned.

Hell! Let us face it. Here it isWe had some walks, some precious talks,Some hours of paradise and bliss.Our blossom opened, we inhaledAll of its fragrance, now I scowlBecause our wonder blossom paledFor lack of water in the bowlTipped over by the alley-cat,Or what not, change, distrust or fear;Your pride, your will, a hovering gnatI struck at striking you, a blearOf eyes a moment, making blindMy vision, yours.... Or there's the age,The age is frightful to my mind,Nothing to do but stand it—wellI sit here and say "hell."

Hell! Let us face it. Here it is

We had some walks, some precious talks,

Some hours of paradise and bliss.

Our blossom opened, we inhaled

All of its fragrance, now I scowl

Because our wonder blossom paled

For lack of water in the bowl

Tipped over by the alley-cat,

Or what not, change, distrust or fear;

Your pride, your will, a hovering gnat

I struck at striking you, a blear

Of eyes a moment, making blind

My vision, yours.... Or there's the age,

The age is frightful to my mind,

Nothing to do but stand it—well

I sit here and say "hell."

For it's really hell to have a will,It's hell to hope and to believe,That good can swallow up the ill,That gods are working, will achieve.They may be, yet they disregardOur cricket feelings, so we shrillSonnets and elegies round the yard...Let's talk a bit of chlorophyll:The sun was useless for our life,No wine, no beef, no watercressUntil this chlorophyll grew rifeMillions of years since, more or less.And if no wine or beef, no love,No pulp, no paper, nigrosine,No letters which are made thereof.Think! All we found and lost has beenThrough chlorophyll.

For it's really hell to have a will,

It's hell to hope and to believe,

That good can swallow up the ill,

That gods are working, will achieve.

They may be, yet they disregard

Our cricket feelings, so we shrill

Sonnets and elegies round the yard...

Let's talk a bit of chlorophyll:

The sun was useless for our life,

No wine, no beef, no watercress

Until this chlorophyll grew rife

Millions of years since, more or less.

And if no wine or beef, no love,

No pulp, no paper, nigrosine,

No letters which are made thereof.

Think! All we found and lost has been

Through chlorophyll.

And just supposeNature should lose the secret powerFor making chlorophyll, the roseWe cherished would not come to flower.No other man and woman moreWould burn their letters grieving—yetWe may be rising, for who knowsThere may be something vastly betterThan love to flame and flay and fret,And hate this letter and that letter,Once rid of chlorophyll, in caseA subtler substance could be givenTo this poor globe out of heaven—We are a weak, if growing race!

And just suppose

Nature should lose the secret power

For making chlorophyll, the rose

We cherished would not come to flower.

No other man and woman more

Would burn their letters grieving—yet

We may be rising, for who knows

There may be something vastly better

Than love to flame and flay and fret,

And hate this letter and that letter,

Once rid of chlorophyll, in case

A subtler substance could be given

To this poor globe out of heaven—

We are a weak, if growing race!

Here, then, I think is a moral for us,Another is tyrannosaurus—Tyrannosaurus, what of him,The monarch of this world one time,Back in the æons wet and dim?He faded like a pantomime.And he could, well, step over trees,Crunch up bowlders like cracking nuts,Flip horses away like bumble-bees,Stretch out in valleys as if they were ruts;And hide a man in his nostril's hole,And crush young forestry just like weeds.He came and went, and what's your soul,And what is mine with their crying needs?And love that seemed eternal once,Given of God to lift, inspire,Well—now do we see? Was I dunceDrunk with the wine of soul's desire?Who made that wine, why did I drink it?Why did I want it? What's the game?Are spirits chaos? I scarce can think it.Why fly for the light and get the flame?Is love for souls of us chlorophyllThat makes us eatable, sweet and crispFor Gods that raise us to feed their fill?Who lives, the dreamer, the will o' the wisp?Do Gods live, vanish, return again?Who in the devil has love or luck?One thing is true, there's rapture and pain.As for the rest, I pass the buck.Something occurs, and God knows what,Tyrannosaurus fades like a ghost.That throws a light on our little lot,Love that is won, love that is lost.Even a hundred years from now,If this poor earth is rolling still,Hearts will quiver, break or bow—Provided the plants have chlorophyll.

Here, then, I think is a moral for us,

Another is tyrannosaurus—

Tyrannosaurus, what of him,

The monarch of this world one time,

Back in the æons wet and dim?

He faded like a pantomime.

And he could, well, step over trees,

Crunch up bowlders like cracking nuts,

Flip horses away like bumble-bees,

Stretch out in valleys as if they were ruts;

And hide a man in his nostril's hole,

And crush young forestry just like weeds.

He came and went, and what's your soul,

And what is mine with their crying needs?

And love that seemed eternal once,

Given of God to lift, inspire,

Well—now do we see? Was I dunce

Drunk with the wine of soul's desire?

Who made that wine, why did I drink it?

Why did I want it? What's the game?

Are spirits chaos? I scarce can think it.

Why fly for the light and get the flame?

Is love for souls of us chlorophyll

That makes us eatable, sweet and crisp

For Gods that raise us to feed their fill?

Who lives, the dreamer, the will o' the wisp?

Do Gods live, vanish, return again?

Who in the devil has love or luck?

One thing is true, there's rapture and pain.

As for the rest, I pass the buck.

Something occurs, and God knows what,

Tyrannosaurus fades like a ghost.

That throws a light on our little lot,

Love that is won, love that is lost.

Even a hundred years from now,

If this poor earth is rolling still,

Hearts will quiver, break or bow—

Provided the plants have chlorophyll.

Oh well! Oh hell! We must be heroic,And it helps to scan a million of years.And to think of monstrous beasts mesoic,Brightens, though it dries no tears.I'll dream for life of our walks by the river—That was March and it's now July.And this remains: I'll love you forever—Burn up the letters now—Good by!

Oh well! Oh hell! We must be heroic,

And it helps to scan a million of years.

And to think of monstrous beasts mesoic,

Brightens, though it dries no tears.

I'll dream for life of our walks by the river—

That was March and it's now July.

And this remains: I'll love you forever—

Burn up the letters now—Good by!

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