II

Thou seem’st to call to that which will not hear,As man to Fate. Thine anthems uncontrolled,From winnowed sands and reefs reverberant rolled,Shake as with sorrow, and the hour is nearWherein thy voice shall seem a thing of fear,Like to a lion’s at the trembling fold;And men shall waken to the midnight cold,And feel that dawn is far, that night is drear.Thou wert ere Life, a dim but quenchless spark,Found vesture in thy vastness. Thou shalt beWhen Life hath crossed the threshold of the Dark,—When shackling ice hath zoned at last thy breast,And thy deep voice is hushed, O vanquished Sea!One with eternity that giveth rest.

Thou wert ere Life, a dim but quenchless spark,Found vesture in thy vastness. Thou shalt beWhen Life hath crossed the threshold of the Dark,—When shackling ice hath zoned at last thy breast,And thy deep voice is hushed, O vanquished Sea!One with eternity that giveth rest.

No cloud is on the heavens, and on the seaNo sail: the immortal, solemn ocean liesUnbroken sapphire to the walling skies—Immutable, supreme in majesty.The billows, where the charging foam leaps free,Burden the winds with thunder. Soul, arise!For ghostly trumpet-blasts and battle-criesAcross the tumult wake the Past for thee.They call me to a dim, disastrous land,Where fallen marbles tell of mighty years,Heroic architraves, but where the gustRipples forsaken waters. Lo! I standWith armies round about, and in mine earsThe roar of harps reborn from legend’s dust.

They call me to a dim, disastrous land,Where fallen marbles tell of mighty years,Heroic architraves, but where the gustRipples forsaken waters. Lo! I standWith armies round about, and in mine earsThe roar of harps reborn from legend’s dust.

How very still this odorous, dim spaceAmid the pines! the light is reverent,Pausing as one who stands with meek intentOn thresholds of an everlasting place.A single iris waits in weary grace—Her countenance before the dawning bent,As Faith might linger, husht and innocent,With all an altar’s glory on her face.But silence now is hateful: I would be,By midnight dark and wild as Satan’s soul,Where the winds’ unreturning charioteersLash, with the hurtling scourges of the sea,Their frantic steeds to some tempestuous goal—The deep’s enormous music in their ears.

But silence now is hateful: I would be,By midnight dark and wild as Satan’s soul,Where the winds’ unreturning charioteersLash, with the hurtling scourges of the sea,Their frantic steeds to some tempestuous goal—The deep’s enormous music in their ears.

O thou unalterable sea! how vastThine utterance! What portent in thy tone,As here thy giant choirs, august, alone,Roll forth their diapason to the blast!—Great waters hurled and broken and upcastIn timeless splendour and immeasured moan,As tho’ Eternity to years unknownBore witness of the sorrows of the Past.Thou callest to a deep within my soul—Untraversed and unsounded; at thy voiceAbysses move with phantoms unbegot.What paeans haunt me and what pangs control!—Thunders wherewith the seraphim rejoice,And mighty hunger for I know not what.

Thou callest to a deep within my soul—Untraversed and unsounded; at thy voiceAbysses move with phantoms unbegot.What paeans haunt me and what pangs control!—Thunders wherewith the seraphim rejoice,And mighty hunger for I know not what.

Now droops the troubled yearAnd now her tiny sunset stains the leaf.A holy fear,A rapt, elusive grief,Make imminent the swift, exalting tear.The long wind’s weary sigh—Knowest, O listener! for what it wakes?Adown the skyWhat star of Time forsakesHer pinnacle? What dream and dreamer die?A presence half-divineStands at the threshold, ready to departWithout a sign.Now seems the world’s deep heartAbout to break. What sorrow stirs in mine?A mist of twilight rainHides now the orange edges of the day.In vain, in vainWi10hou stay,Beauty who wast, and shalt not be again!

Now droops the troubled yearAnd now her tiny sunset stains the leaf.A holy fear,A rapt, elusive grief,Make imminent the swift, exalting tear.

The long wind’s weary sigh—Knowest, O listener! for what it wakes?Adown the skyWhat star of Time forsakesHer pinnacle? What dream and dreamer die?

A presence half-divineStands at the threshold, ready to departWithout a sign.Now seems the world’s deep heartAbout to break. What sorrow stirs in mine?

A mist of twilight rainHides now the orange edges of the day.In vain, in vainWi10hou stay,Beauty who wast, and shalt not be again!

Untaught, I meet the question of the hours—Travail and prayer and call;But ye, with stillness deeper than the flow’rs’,O stars! can answer all.Now, tho’ the sapphire walls of noon forbidYour beams compassionate,Witheld by light, as love by silence hid,Unchanging ye await,Till Day, whom all the swords of sunset barFrom Edens daily lost,Pass, and your lonely armies sink afarTo oceans nightly crost.Ah! when, ere long, I watch your kingdoms reachPast the departed sun,Will ye, in silence holier than speech,Tell that our ways are one?—That I, as ye, vanish awhile in day(The day we reckon night),Till dusks of birth reveal the backward wayTo darkness reckoned light?Come! for the ancient Altar waits your flame,The seas of shadow call,And, exile of a land I cannot name,Homesick, I question all.

Untaught, I meet the question of the hours—Travail and prayer and call;But ye, with stillness deeper than the flow’rs’,O stars! can answer all.

Now, tho’ the sapphire walls of noon forbidYour beams compassionate,Witheld by light, as love by silence hid,Unchanging ye await,

Till Day, whom all the swords of sunset barFrom Edens daily lost,Pass, and your lonely armies sink afarTo oceans nightly crost.

Ah! when, ere long, I watch your kingdoms reachPast the departed sun,Will ye, in silence holier than speech,Tell that our ways are one?—

That I, as ye, vanish awhile in day(The day we reckon night),Till dusks of birth reveal the backward wayTo darkness reckoned light?

Come! for the ancient Altar waits your flame,The seas of shadow call,And, exile of a land I cannot name,Homesick, I question all.

Its red and emerald beacons from the nightDraw human moths in melancholy flight,With beams whose gaudy glories point the wayTo safety or destruction—choose who may!Crystal and powder, oils or tincture clear,Such the dim sight of man beholds, but hereAwait, indisputable in their pow’r,Great Presences, abiding each his hour;And for a little price rash man attainsThis council of the perils and the pains—This parliament of death, and brotherhoodOmniponent for evil and for good.Venoms of vision, myrrh of splendid swoons,They wait us past the green and scarlet moons.Here prisoned rest the tender hands of Peace,And there an angel at whose bidding ceaseThe clamors of the tortured sense, the strifeOf nerves confounded in the war of life.Within this vial pallid Sleep is caught,In that, the sleep eternal. Here are soughtSuch webs as in their agonizing meshDraw back from doom the half-reluctant flesh.There beck the traitor joys to him who buys,And Death sits panoplied in gorgeous guise.The dusts of hell, the dews of heavenly sods,Water of Lethe or the wine of gods,Purchase who will, but, ere his task begin,Beware the service that you set the djinn!Each hath his mercy, each his certain law,And each his Lord behind the veil of awe;But ponder well the ministry you crave,Lest he be final master, you the slave.Each hath a price, and each a tribute givesTo him who turns from life and him who lives.If so you win from Pain a swift release,His face shall haunt you in the house of Peace;If so from Pain you scorn an anodyne,Peace shall repay you with a draft divine.Tho’ toil and time be now by them surpast,Exact the recompense they take at last—These genii of the vials, wreaking stillTheir sorceries on human sense and will.

Venoms of vision, myrrh of splendid swoons,They wait us past the green and scarlet moons.Here prisoned rest the tender hands of Peace,And there an angel at whose bidding ceaseThe clamors of the tortured sense, the strifeOf nerves confounded in the war of life.Within this vial pallid Sleep is caught,In that, the sleep eternal. Here are soughtSuch webs as in their agonizing meshDraw back from doom the half-reluctant flesh.There beck the traitor joys to him who buys,And Death sits panoplied in gorgeous guise.

The dusts of hell, the dews of heavenly sods,Water of Lethe or the wine of gods,Purchase who will, but, ere his task begin,Beware the service that you set the djinn!Each hath his mercy, each his certain law,And each his Lord behind the veil of awe;But ponder well the ministry you crave,Lest he be final master, you the slave.Each hath a price, and each a tribute givesTo him who turns from life and him who lives.If so you win from Pain a swift release,His face shall haunt you in the house of Peace;If so from Pain you scorn an anodyne,Peace shall repay you with a draft divine.Tho’ toil and time be now by them surpast,Exact the recompense they take at last—These genii of the vials, wreaking stillTheir sorceries on human sense and will.

We were eight fishers of the western sea,Who sailed our craft beside a barren land,Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains standAnd lonely beaches be.There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past;Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore,To rest in safety ’mid the broken roarAnd mist of surges vast.One strand we know, remote from all the rest,For north and south the cliffs are high and steep,Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep,Insurgent from the west.Tawny it lies, untrodden e’er by man,Save when from storm we sought its narrow riftTo beach our craft and light a fire of driftAnd sleep till day began.Along its sands no flower nor bird has home.Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor saveThe whorled and curving emerald of the waveAnd scarves of rustling foam—A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore,By all the ocean stars’ unhasting flight,To seek no refuge for another nightUpon that haunted shore.That year a sombre autumn held the earth.At dawn we sailed from out our village bay;We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day;The sea-birds mocked our mirth.Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark;Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee,Where thundered over by the white-hooved seaThe reefs lie gaunt and dark.But when we would have cast our hooks, the mainGrew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said:“Seek we a shelter.” And the west was red;God gave his winds the rein.And eastward lay the sands of which I told;Thither we fled, and on the narrow beachDrew up our keels beyond the lessening reachOf waters green and cold.Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew cleanThe skies. A wincing star came forth at last.We heard like mighty tollings on the blastThe shock of waves unseen.The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead;The Scorpion crept slowly in the southTo pits below the horizon; in its mouthLay a young moon that bled.And from our fire the ravished flame swept back,Like yellow hair of one who flies apace,Compelled in lands barbarian to raceWith lions on her track.Then from the maelstroms of the surf aroseWild laughter, mystical, and up the sandsCame Two that walked with intertwining handsAmid those ocean snows.Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray—Fairer than gods and naked as the moon,The foamy fillets at their ankles strewnLess marble-white than they.Laughing they stood, then to our beacon’s glareDrew nearer, as we watched in mad surpriseThe scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes,The red and tangled hair.Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed),In harplike accents of a tongue unknown—About his brows the dripping locks were blown;Like wannest gold he gleamed.Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke.Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,—The leap of those white leopards in the wave,—The spume of seas that broke.Yet sat we mute, for then a human wordSeemed folly’s worst. And scorn began to traceIts presence on the wild, imperious face;Again the red lips stirred,But spoke not. In an instant we were freeFrom that enchantment: fleet as deer they turnedAnd sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned.We saw them meet the sea.We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled,Call in one thunder to the granite walls;But over all, like broken clarion-calls,Disdainful laughter welled.Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind.Our fire had faltered on its little dune.Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon.The night lay vast and blind.Silent, we waited the assuring morn,Which rose on angered waters. But we setOur hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet,Beat up the coast forlorn.And no man scorned our tale, for well they knewHad mystery befallen: in our eyesWere alien terrors and unknown surmise.Men saw the tale was true.And no man seeks a refuge on that shore,Tho tempests gather in impelling skies;Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies,Forsaken evermore.For on those sands immaculate and lonePerchance They list the sea’s immeasured lyre,When sunset casts an evanescent fireThro billows thunder-sown.

We were eight fishers of the western sea,Who sailed our craft beside a barren land,Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains standAnd lonely beaches be.

There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past;Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore,To rest in safety ’mid the broken roarAnd mist of surges vast.

One strand we know, remote from all the rest,For north and south the cliffs are high and steep,Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep,Insurgent from the west.

Tawny it lies, untrodden e’er by man,Save when from storm we sought its narrow riftTo beach our craft and light a fire of driftAnd sleep till day began.

Along its sands no flower nor bird has home.Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor saveThe whorled and curving emerald of the waveAnd scarves of rustling foam—

A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore,By all the ocean stars’ unhasting flight,To seek no refuge for another nightUpon that haunted shore.

That year a sombre autumn held the earth.At dawn we sailed from out our village bay;We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day;The sea-birds mocked our mirth.

Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark;Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee,Where thundered over by the white-hooved seaThe reefs lie gaunt and dark.

But when we would have cast our hooks, the mainGrew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said:“Seek we a shelter.” And the west was red;God gave his winds the rein.

And eastward lay the sands of which I told;Thither we fled, and on the narrow beachDrew up our keels beyond the lessening reachOf waters green and cold.

Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew cleanThe skies. A wincing star came forth at last.We heard like mighty tollings on the blastThe shock of waves unseen.

The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead;The Scorpion crept slowly in the southTo pits below the horizon; in its mouthLay a young moon that bled.

And from our fire the ravished flame swept back,Like yellow hair of one who flies apace,Compelled in lands barbarian to raceWith lions on her track.

Then from the maelstroms of the surf aroseWild laughter, mystical, and up the sandsCame Two that walked with intertwining handsAmid those ocean snows.

Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray—Fairer than gods and naked as the moon,The foamy fillets at their ankles strewnLess marble-white than they.

Laughing they stood, then to our beacon’s glareDrew nearer, as we watched in mad surpriseThe scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes,The red and tangled hair.

Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed),In harplike accents of a tongue unknown—About his brows the dripping locks were blown;Like wannest gold he gleamed.

Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke.Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,—The leap of those white leopards in the wave,—The spume of seas that broke.

Yet sat we mute, for then a human wordSeemed folly’s worst. And scorn began to traceIts presence on the wild, imperious face;Again the red lips stirred,

But spoke not. In an instant we were freeFrom that enchantment: fleet as deer they turnedAnd sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned.We saw them meet the sea.

We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled,Call in one thunder to the granite walls;But over all, like broken clarion-calls,Disdainful laughter welled.

Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind.Our fire had faltered on its little dune.Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon.The night lay vast and blind.

Silent, we waited the assuring morn,Which rose on angered waters. But we setOur hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet,Beat up the coast forlorn.

And no man scorned our tale, for well they knewHad mystery befallen: in our eyesWere alien terrors and unknown surmise.Men saw the tale was true.

And no man seeks a refuge on that shore,Tho tempests gather in impelling skies;Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies,Forsaken evermore.

For on those sands immaculate and lonePerchance They list the sea’s immeasured lyre,When sunset casts an evanescent fireThro billows thunder-sown.

O trees! so vast, so calm!Softly ye layOn heart and mind todayThe unpurchaseable balm.Ere yet the wind can cease,Your mighty sighIs spirit of the sky—Half sorrow and half peace.Mourn ye your brothers slain,That now afarFrom hush and dews and starMan barters for his gain?Mourn them with all your boughs,For I must mourn,In seasons yet unborn,The cares that they will house.

O trees! so vast, so calm!Softly ye layOn heart and mind todayThe unpurchaseable balm.

Ere yet the wind can cease,Your mighty sighIs spirit of the sky—Half sorrow and half peace.

Mourn ye your brothers slain,That now afarFrom hush and dews and starMan barters for his gain?

Mourn them with all your boughs,For I must mourn,In seasons yet unborn,The cares that they will house.

O Twilight, Twilight! evermore to hearThe wounded viols pleading to thy heart!To dream we watch thy purple wings depart;To wake, and know thy presence alway near!What dost thou on the pathway of the sun?Abide thy sister Night, while strains so pureMake heaven and all its beauty seem too sure,And all too certain her oblivion.One star awakes to turn thee from the south.Oh, linger in the shadows thou hast drawn,Ere Night cast dew before the feet of Dawn,Or Silence lay her kiss on Music’s mouth!

O Twilight, Twilight! evermore to hearThe wounded viols pleading to thy heart!To dream we watch thy purple wings depart;To wake, and know thy presence alway near!

What dost thou on the pathway of the sun?Abide thy sister Night, while strains so pureMake heaven and all its beauty seem too sure,And all too certain her oblivion.

One star awakes to turn thee from the south.Oh, linger in the shadows thou hast drawn,Ere Night cast dew before the feet of Dawn,Or Silence lay her kiss on Music’s mouth!

Wherewith is Beauty fashioned? Canst thou deemHer evanescent roses bourgeon saveWithin the sunlight tender on her grave?Awake no winds but bear her dust, a gleamIn morning’s prophecy or sunset’s dream;And every cry that ever Sirens gaveFrom islands mournful with the quiring waveWas echo of a music once supreme.All æons, conquests, excellencies, stars,All pain and peril of seraphic wars,Were met to shape thy soul’s divinity.Pause, for the breath of gods is on thy face!The ghost of dawns forgotten and to beAbides a moment in the twilight’s grace.

All æons, conquests, excellencies, stars,All pain and peril of seraphic wars,Were met to shape thy soul’s divinity.Pause, for the breath of gods is on thy face!The ghost of dawns forgotten and to beAbides a moment in the twilight’s grace.

An early thrush acclaims the light—The wide, low-billowing dayO’er dews and grasses chill with nightUpcasts its foam of grey.Now end the darkness and its dreams.The ashen moon is low;Like petal-drift on placid streamsWe watch her sink and go.And like a dryad to her treeThe morning star hath sped—Gone ere an eye essayed to seeThe path whereon she fled.Hark how, as here we stand the wardsOf woodlands newly green,The pine’s innumerable chordsAre touched by hands unseen!Hearing, the forest seems forlornAnd all the air a sighOf things that seek a vaster morn,And find it not, and die.O tranquil hour! the haggard noonShall make a ghost of theeSoon to be memory’s, and soonNot even of memory.

An early thrush acclaims the light—The wide, low-billowing dayO’er dews and grasses chill with nightUpcasts its foam of grey.

Now end the darkness and its dreams.The ashen moon is low;Like petal-drift on placid streamsWe watch her sink and go.

And like a dryad to her treeThe morning star hath sped—Gone ere an eye essayed to seeThe path whereon she fled.

Hark how, as here we stand the wardsOf woodlands newly green,The pine’s innumerable chordsAre touched by hands unseen!

Hearing, the forest seems forlornAnd all the air a sighOf things that seek a vaster morn,And find it not, and die.

O tranquil hour! the haggard noonShall make a ghost of theeSoon to be memory’s, and soonNot even of memory.

Beauty, what dost thou here?Why hauntest thou this empery of painWhere men in vainLong for another sphere?Art not an exile shy,A dreamer ’mid the swords,Upon this iron world where men defyTime and its hidden lords?Thou waitest with a splendor on thy brow.And seem’st to watch with compensating eyesEach jest our dwarfing Fates devise;And after all the strife,’Tis thouWho standest where the slayers’ feet have trod—Perchance a portion of this dream of GodThat will not go from life.All that man’s yearning finds beyond its reachThou hast in promise, giving to his heartA rapturous sadness all too wild for speech,—A glory past the thresholds of his art,Tho Nature tell it with the windAnd beckon him to find.Thou dost reward our barren years:Our very tears—The dews of memory—Were lovely as the dew, could Grief but see.What marvel fillsThine evenings, dawns and noons!—The dryad-haunted hillsAnd gold of reeds that wait the lips of Pan;Silence and silver one in wasting moons;The stainsOf mornings beautiful ere Time began,And wine-souled Autumn and the ghostly rains;A birdIn moonlit valleys of enchantment heard;The fall of sunsets past the sea,And shadow of celestial pearls to beWhere meet in dayThe night’s last star, the morning’s youngest ray.On thine incarnate face could we but look,Would not we die,Desiring overmuch?And yet we sigh,Who find on land and sea thy radiant touchAnd dream thou hast on earth a secret nook—A glade supremely blestIn woodlands where thou wanderest unseen.Hath not the snowy NorthOr star-concealing ocean of the WestA court wherein thou sittest queen,A temple whence thou goest forth,An altar for our quest?Goddess, one such I know,And fain would praise,Tho less the gift my words bestowThan tapers ’mid the blazeOf peaceless stars that gather at thy throne.Yet seems it most thine own.Past Carmel lies a headland that the deep—A Titan at his toil—Has graven with the measured surge and sweepOf waves that broke ten thousand years ago.Here winds assoilThat blowFrom unfamiliar skiesAnd isolating waters of the West.Deep-channelled by the billows’ rage it lies,As tho the landThrust forth a vast, tree-shaggy handTo bar the furious ocean from its breast.Here Beauty would I seek,For this I deem her home,And surely hereThe sea-adoring Greek,Poseidon, unto theeThy loftiest temple had been swift to rear,Of chosen marble and chalcedony,Pure as the irrecoverable foam.Ere evening from this granite bulwark gaze,Above the deeper sapphire that the windsDrag to and fro.A zoneOf coldest chrysopraseTells where the sunlight findsThe glimmering shoal.How slowYon clouds, like giants overthrownSink to the ocean’s western verge,From whence incessant rollThro unresponding yearsThe waves whose anthem challenges the soul—The everlasting surgeWhose ancient salt is in our blood and tears.Listen, with sight made blind,And dream thou hearest on the according windThe music of the gods again,The murmur of their slainAnd firmamental echo of great wars.See how the wave in sudden anger flingsWhite arms about a rock to drag it down!No siren sings,But in that pool of crystal gleams her crown,Flung on a rocky shelf—Grey jewels cold and agates of the elfThat in yon scarlet cavern still is hid,’Mid shells that mock the dawn.Here, where the northern surge is swayedUpon a beach of amber where a faunMight clasp the beauty of a Nereid,Translucent waters cover loops of jade.Beyond, the sea-scourged walls upholdA mount of granite, steep and harsh, where clingAlong its rugged lengthThe cypress legions, melancholy, old.O’er wasting cliff and strandIn terraced emerald they standAgainst the sky,Each elder tree a kingWhose fame the wordless billows magnify.A thousand winters of achieving stormMoulded each mighty formTo beauty and to strength:A thousand more shall raven ere they die.But wander to the verge againWhere the immeasurable mainBelow the red horizon rears its wall,The day’s enormous pyreWhence oft, in mighty sunsets of the West,The world seems menaced by invading fire.Dost hear no callFrom these hesperian Islands of the BlestThat wait the questOf galleys of adventure, launched at dawnAnd seaward on the tides of peril drawn?The sky-line’s crimson harbors seem to hold,At dusk, their prows of gold.Now, ere the stars come out along the wind,The veering sea-birds findThe refuge that they craveOn cliffs above the weedy mouthOf some reverberant caveIn which the ocean’s monstrous chuckle wakes.Fast comes the night;The west witholds at lastThose last red relics of departing lightThat once were noon.Hark how the billow breaks,Forever castOn reefs round which wild waters and the moonWeave silver garlands—foamy fillets strewnAlong her shining pathway to the South!The stars arise,And westward now the Eagle holds their van.See how the Pleiades,Like hounds in leash before Aldebaran,Strain up the shifting skies!The cypress trees,Drenched in the milk o’ the moon, conspirant seem,The surf a chant of giants heard afar,While seaward gleamThe lamps of Lyra and the evening star....The midnight hushes all;The winds are dumb;Eastward, Orion treads the mountain-wall.But lo! what visitant is on the gloom?Beauty and mystery and terror meetAt this her chosen seat:The writhing fog is come,White as the moon’s cold handsLaid on a marble tomb.Slow swarm the dragon-bands—Those pallid monsters of the mist that noseThe granite bareAnd glide along the flanksOf hill and headland where the cypress ranksAre crouched like silent foes,Relentless and aware.Far to the sombre hills they roamLike winds that have no home,And creep,Unhasting and intent,Along the muffled deep,As tho malignly sentFrom Lethe’s murmur and the starless foam.They pass, and now again the moon is free,Slow pacing with the Signs about her head;Soon shall the dawn arise and find her fledFrom yon blue battlement,As tho a pearl were hidden by the sea.Beauty, what dost thou here?Why hauntest thou the House where Death is lordAnd o’er thy crown appearThe inexorable shadow and the sword?Art not a mad mirage above a grave?The foam foredriven of a perished wave?A clarion afar?A lily on the waters of despond?A ray that leaping from our whitest starShows but the night beyond?And yet thou seemest more than all the restThat eye and ear attest—A watch-tower on the mountains whence we seeOn future skiesThe rose of dawn to be;The altar of an undiscovered shore;A dim assurance and a proud surmise;A gleamUpon the bubble, Time;The vision, fleet, sublime,Of sorrowed man, the brute that dared to dream.Ah! those, and more!Made veritable tho the heart descryNo path to thy demesneAnd Music builds, unseen,Her Heaven we shall not enter tho we die.Still must thou speak,August and consecrate,Of that Reality we can but seek,Tho seeking fail—That Sun eternal and inviolate,Whereof thou art the portent and the veil.

All that man’s yearning finds beyond its reachThou hast in promise, giving to his heartA rapturous sadness all too wild for speech,—A glory past the thresholds of his art,Tho Nature tell it with the windAnd beckon him to find.Thou dost reward our barren years:Our very tears—The dews of memory—Were lovely as the dew, could Grief but see.What marvel fillsThine evenings, dawns and noons!—The dryad-haunted hillsAnd gold of reeds that wait the lips of Pan;Silence and silver one in wasting moons;The stainsOf mornings beautiful ere Time began,And wine-souled Autumn and the ghostly rains;A birdIn moonlit valleys of enchantment heard;The fall of sunsets past the sea,And shadow of celestial pearls to beWhere meet in dayThe night’s last star, the morning’s youngest ray.

On thine incarnate face could we but look,Would not we die,Desiring overmuch?And yet we sigh,Who find on land and sea thy radiant touchAnd dream thou hast on earth a secret nook—A glade supremely blestIn woodlands where thou wanderest unseen.Hath not the snowy NorthOr star-concealing ocean of the WestA court wherein thou sittest queen,A temple whence thou goest forth,An altar for our quest?Goddess, one such I know,And fain would praise,Tho less the gift my words bestowThan tapers ’mid the blazeOf peaceless stars that gather at thy throne.Yet seems it most thine own.

Past Carmel lies a headland that the deep—A Titan at his toil—Has graven with the measured surge and sweepOf waves that broke ten thousand years ago.Here winds assoilThat blowFrom unfamiliar skiesAnd isolating waters of the West.Deep-channelled by the billows’ rage it lies,As tho the landThrust forth a vast, tree-shaggy handTo bar the furious ocean from its breast.Here Beauty would I seek,For this I deem her home,And surely hereThe sea-adoring Greek,Poseidon, unto theeThy loftiest temple had been swift to rear,Of chosen marble and chalcedony,Pure as the irrecoverable foam.

Ere evening from this granite bulwark gaze,Above the deeper sapphire that the windsDrag to and fro.A zoneOf coldest chrysopraseTells where the sunlight findsThe glimmering shoal.How slowYon clouds, like giants overthrownSink to the ocean’s western verge,From whence incessant rollThro unresponding yearsThe waves whose anthem challenges the soul—The everlasting surgeWhose ancient salt is in our blood and tears.Listen, with sight made blind,And dream thou hearest on the according windThe music of the gods again,The murmur of their slainAnd firmamental echo of great wars.See how the wave in sudden anger flingsWhite arms about a rock to drag it down!No siren sings,But in that pool of crystal gleams her crown,Flung on a rocky shelf—Grey jewels cold and agates of the elfThat in yon scarlet cavern still is hid,’Mid shells that mock the dawn.Here, where the northern surge is swayedUpon a beach of amber where a faunMight clasp the beauty of a Nereid,Translucent waters cover loops of jade.Beyond, the sea-scourged walls upholdA mount of granite, steep and harsh, where clingAlong its rugged lengthThe cypress legions, melancholy, old.O’er wasting cliff and strandIn terraced emerald they standAgainst the sky,Each elder tree a kingWhose fame the wordless billows magnify.A thousand winters of achieving stormMoulded each mighty formTo beauty and to strength:A thousand more shall raven ere they die.

But wander to the verge againWhere the immeasurable mainBelow the red horizon rears its wall,The day’s enormous pyreWhence oft, in mighty sunsets of the West,The world seems menaced by invading fire.Dost hear no callFrom these hesperian Islands of the BlestThat wait the questOf galleys of adventure, launched at dawnAnd seaward on the tides of peril drawn?The sky-line’s crimson harbors seem to hold,At dusk, their prows of gold.Now, ere the stars come out along the wind,The veering sea-birds findThe refuge that they craveOn cliffs above the weedy mouthOf some reverberant caveIn which the ocean’s monstrous chuckle wakes.Fast comes the night;The west witholds at lastThose last red relics of departing lightThat once were noon.Hark how the billow breaks,Forever castOn reefs round which wild waters and the moonWeave silver garlands—foamy fillets strewnAlong her shining pathway to the South!The stars arise,And westward now the Eagle holds their van.See how the Pleiades,Like hounds in leash before Aldebaran,Strain up the shifting skies!The cypress trees,Drenched in the milk o’ the moon, conspirant seem,The surf a chant of giants heard afar,While seaward gleamThe lamps of Lyra and the evening star....

The midnight hushes all;The winds are dumb;Eastward, Orion treads the mountain-wall.But lo! what visitant is on the gloom?Beauty and mystery and terror meetAt this her chosen seat:The writhing fog is come,White as the moon’s cold handsLaid on a marble tomb.Slow swarm the dragon-bands—Those pallid monsters of the mist that noseThe granite bareAnd glide along the flanksOf hill and headland where the cypress ranksAre crouched like silent foes,Relentless and aware.Far to the sombre hills they roamLike winds that have no home,And creep,Unhasting and intent,Along the muffled deep,As tho malignly sentFrom Lethe’s murmur and the starless foam.They pass, and now again the moon is free,Slow pacing with the Signs about her head;Soon shall the dawn arise and find her fledFrom yon blue battlement,As tho a pearl were hidden by the sea.Beauty, what dost thou here?Why hauntest thou the House where Death is lordAnd o’er thy crown appearThe inexorable shadow and the sword?Art not a mad mirage above a grave?The foam foredriven of a perished wave?A clarion afar?A lily on the waters of despond?A ray that leaping from our whitest starShows but the night beyond?And yet thou seemest more than all the restThat eye and ear attest—A watch-tower on the mountains whence we seeOn future skiesThe rose of dawn to be;The altar of an undiscovered shore;A dim assurance and a proud surmise;A gleamUpon the bubble, Time;The vision, fleet, sublime,Of sorrowed man, the brute that dared to dream.Ah! those, and more!Made veritable tho the heart descryNo path to thy demesneAnd Music builds, unseen,Her Heaven we shall not enter tho we die.Still must thou speak,August and consecrate,Of that Reality we can but seek,Tho seeking fail—That Sun eternal and inviolate,Whereof thou art the portent and the veil.

Now in the noontide peace I lieWhere waving grass is green,With bosom open to the skyAnd not a cloud between;At dawn, one cast from out the blueA shadow on my lanes,Then vanished with the dwindling dewAnd not a wisp remains.An hour ago I watched an antHaste homeward with her spoil;She had, by Jove his covenant,No quittance of her toil;Doubtless they be a thrifty race,Whose works shall not depart:O Jove, who grantest each his place,Teach not to me their art!I and my kin shall pass ere long,And ants shall ever be;But better now the linnet’s songThan their eternity.What tho my people perish soon?Awhile the dews we crushWhere nights of summer mould the moonAnd laughters wake the thrush.From yonder hill I spy on manAnd marvel at his need,Who fashions, in a season’s span,A thousand fanes to Greed;Perchance from each, his worship done,He ventures forth repaid,But grant thou me the spendthrift sunAnd berries of the glade.At noon great Caesar’s chariot past,A poison on the air,But drive he slow or drive he fast,The journey’s end is Care—Care, at whose throne all mortals standWith tinsel crowns put by,Too weak to rove the billowed land,Too sad to watch the sky.Mid ivied trunks I see her gleam,The nymph, my forest-mate;She wanders by the lyric stream,To us articulate.A golden house let Caesar build,To hold his ghosts and gods—For me the summer eves are stilled,For me the flower nods.

An hour ago I watched an antHaste homeward with her spoil;She had, by Jove his covenant,No quittance of her toil;Doubtless they be a thrifty race,Whose works shall not depart:O Jove, who grantest each his place,Teach not to me their art!

I and my kin shall pass ere long,And ants shall ever be;But better now the linnet’s songThan their eternity.What tho my people perish soon?Awhile the dews we crushWhere nights of summer mould the moonAnd laughters wake the thrush.

From yonder hill I spy on manAnd marvel at his need,Who fashions, in a season’s span,A thousand fanes to Greed;Perchance from each, his worship done,He ventures forth repaid,But grant thou me the spendthrift sunAnd berries of the glade.

At noon great Caesar’s chariot past,A poison on the air,But drive he slow or drive he fast,The journey’s end is Care—Care, at whose throne all mortals standWith tinsel crowns put by,Too weak to rove the billowed land,Too sad to watch the sky.

Mid ivied trunks I see her gleam,The nymph, my forest-mate;She wanders by the lyric stream,To us articulate.A golden house let Caesar build,To hold his ghosts and gods—For me the summer eves are stilled,For me the flower nods.

Last night the granite headland loomedA Titan on the night,About whose knees the billows boomed,Enormous, baffled, white.And now to morning’s throne of goldMurmurs the chastened sea:Its thunder and its whispers holdThe selfsame mystery.

Last night the granite headland loomedA Titan on the night,About whose knees the billows boomed,Enormous, baffled, white.

And now to morning’s throne of goldMurmurs the chastened sea:Its thunder and its whispers holdThe selfsame mystery.

Blunt as a child, since child he was at heart,And sun-sincere, my friend to many seemedDull, rude, aggressive, tactless. Add to allHis bulk and hairiness and stormy laugh,And one can find them some excuse for that.’Twas seeming only. We, who found his soulThro friendship’s crystal, saw beyond the glassThe elusive seraph. In his mind were metThe faun, the cynic, the philosopher,But first of all, the poet. Give to suchApollo’s guise, and matters were not well.Too glad to pose, ofttimes he held his peaceBefore the jest that sought his heart; but letThe whim appeal, and all his mind took fire—The shifted diamond’s instant shock of light.Beauty to him (as wine’s ecstatic draught,Richer than blood, and every drop a dream)Was like a wind some hidden world put forthTo baffle, madden, lure—at times, betray,Then win him back to worship with a breathOf Edens never trodden. Yet he stoodNo dupe to Nature in her harlotry,Her guile, her blind injustice and the abruptFerocities of chance, but swift to faceThe unkempt fact, and swift no less to snatchIts honey from illusion’s stinging hive—No moth that beat upon Time’s enginery.Yet loved he Nature well, as one might loveA half-tamed leopardess, for beauty’s graceAlone. Within his enigmatic soulSorrow and Art made Love their servitor,For he would have no master but himself.To what best liken him? Some singer mustHave used the star-souled geode’s rind and heart,Telling of such as he. Let me compareHis rugged aspect and auroral mindTo that wide shell our western ocean grants—Without, all harsh and hueless, with, perhaps,A group of barnacles or tattered weed;Within, such splendor as would make one guessThat once a score of dawnings and a troopOf royal sunsets had condensed their pompTo rainbow lacquer which the ocean pow’rsHad lavished, godlike, on the gorgeous bowl.

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