George Sterling
Soft from the linden’s bough,Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,Eve’s dove laments her now:“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”That yearning in his voiceTold not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale:As other birds rejoiceHe sang, a brother to the nightingale.By twilight on her breastHe saw the flower sleep, the star awake;And calling her from rest,Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.And then the Tempter’s breath,The sword of exile and the mortal chain—The heritage of deathThat gave her heart to dust, his own to pain....In Eden desolateThe seraph heard his lonely music swoon,As now, reiterate;“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
Soft from the linden’s bough,Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,Eve’s dove laments her now:“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”That yearning in his voiceTold not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale:As other birds rejoiceHe sang, a brother to the nightingale.By twilight on her breastHe saw the flower sleep, the star awake;And calling her from rest,Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.And then the Tempter’s breath,The sword of exile and the mortal chain—The heritage of deathThat gave her heart to dust, his own to pain....In Eden desolateThe seraph heard his lonely music swoon,As now, reiterate;“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
Soft from the linden’s bough,Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,Eve’s dove laments her now:“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
Soft from the linden’s bough,
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,
Eve’s dove laments her now:
“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
That yearning in his voiceTold not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale:As other birds rejoiceHe sang, a brother to the nightingale.
That yearning in his voice
Told not to Paradise a sorrow’s tale:
As other birds rejoice
He sang, a brother to the nightingale.
By twilight on her breastHe saw the flower sleep, the star awake;And calling her from rest,Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
By twilight on her breast
He saw the flower sleep, the star awake;
And calling her from rest,
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
And then the Tempter’s breath,The sword of exile and the mortal chain—The heritage of deathThat gave her heart to dust, his own to pain....
And then the Tempter’s breath,
The sword of exile and the mortal chain—
The heritage of death
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain....
In Eden desolateThe seraph heard his lonely music swoon,As now, reiterate;“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
In Eden desolate
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon,
As now, reiterate;
“Ah, gone! long gone! shall not I find thee soon?”
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,As Twilight in unhesitating handsBore from the faint horizon’s underlands,Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,I heard the sea, and far away could markWhere that unalterable waste expandsIn sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,May not a being, born like me to die,Confront a little the eternal NaughtAnd watch our isolated sun decline—Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,As Twilight in unhesitating handsBore from the faint horizon’s underlands,Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,I heard the sea, and far away could markWhere that unalterable waste expandsIn sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,May not a being, born like me to die,Confront a little the eternal NaughtAnd watch our isolated sun decline—Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,As Twilight in unhesitating handsBore from the faint horizon’s underlands,Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,I heard the sea, and far away could markWhere that unalterable waste expandsIn sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.
Musing, between the sunset and the dark,
As Twilight in unhesitating hands
Bore from the faint horizon’s underlands,
Silvern and chill, the moon’s phantasmal ark,
I heard the sea, and far away could mark
Where that unalterable waste expands
In sevenfold sapphire from the mournful sands,
And saw beyond the deep a vibrant spark.
There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,May not a being, born like me to die,Confront a little the eternal NaughtAnd watch our isolated sun decline—Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
There sank the sun Arcturus, and I thought:
Star, by an ocean on a world of thine,
May not a being, born like me to die,
Confront a little the eternal Naught
And watch our isolated sun decline—
Sad for his evanescence, even as I?
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I,And what my land of birth I do not know,Nor yet the hidden land to which I go.One may be lord of many ere he die,And tell of many sorrows in one sigh,But know himself he shall not, nor his woe,Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow;Nor why one star is taken from the sky.An urging is upon him evermore,And though he bide, his soul is wanderer,Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste—Where fade the tracks of all who went before:A dim and solitary travellerOn ways that end in evening and the waste.
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I,And what my land of birth I do not know,Nor yet the hidden land to which I go.One may be lord of many ere he die,And tell of many sorrows in one sigh,But know himself he shall not, nor his woe,Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow;Nor why one star is taken from the sky.An urging is upon him evermore,And though he bide, his soul is wanderer,Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste—Where fade the tracks of all who went before:A dim and solitary travellerOn ways that end in evening and the waste.
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I,And what my land of birth I do not know,Nor yet the hidden land to which I go.One may be lord of many ere he die,And tell of many sorrows in one sigh,But know himself he shall not, nor his woe,Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow;Nor why one star is taken from the sky.
The stranger in my gates—lo! that am I,
And what my land of birth I do not know,
Nor yet the hidden land to which I go.
One may be lord of many ere he die,
And tell of many sorrows in one sigh,
But know himself he shall not, nor his woe,
Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow;
Nor why one star is taken from the sky.
An urging is upon him evermore,And though he bide, his soul is wanderer,Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste—Where fade the tracks of all who went before:A dim and solitary travellerOn ways that end in evening and the waste.
An urging is upon him evermore,
And though he bide, his soul is wanderer,
Scanning the shadows with a sense of haste—
Where fade the tracks of all who went before:
A dim and solitary traveller
On ways that end in evening and the waste.
The russet leaves of the sycamoreLie at last on the valley floor—By the autumn wind swept to and froLike ghosts in a tale of long ago.Shallow and clear the Carmel glidesWhere the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.The bracken-rust is red on the hill;The pines stand brooding, somber and still;Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray,Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray.Sad November, lady of rain,Sends the goose-wedge over again.Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth,Falls the sunlight over the earth;Kildees call from the fields where nowThe banding blackbirds follow the plow;Rustling poplar and brittle weedWhisper low to the river-reed.Days departing linger and sigh:Stars come soon to the quiet sky;Buried voices, intimate, strange,Cry to body and soul of change;Beauty, eternal fugitive,Seeks the home that we cannot give.
The russet leaves of the sycamoreLie at last on the valley floor—By the autumn wind swept to and froLike ghosts in a tale of long ago.Shallow and clear the Carmel glidesWhere the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.The bracken-rust is red on the hill;The pines stand brooding, somber and still;Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray,Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray.Sad November, lady of rain,Sends the goose-wedge over again.Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth,Falls the sunlight over the earth;Kildees call from the fields where nowThe banding blackbirds follow the plow;Rustling poplar and brittle weedWhisper low to the river-reed.Days departing linger and sigh:Stars come soon to the quiet sky;Buried voices, intimate, strange,Cry to body and soul of change;Beauty, eternal fugitive,Seeks the home that we cannot give.
The russet leaves of the sycamoreLie at last on the valley floor—By the autumn wind swept to and froLike ghosts in a tale of long ago.Shallow and clear the Carmel glidesWhere the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.
The russet leaves of the sycamore
Lie at last on the valley floor—
By the autumn wind swept to and fro
Like ghosts in a tale of long ago.
Shallow and clear the Carmel glides
Where the willows droop on its vine-walled sides.
The bracken-rust is red on the hill;The pines stand brooding, somber and still;Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray,Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray.Sad November, lady of rain,Sends the goose-wedge over again.
The bracken-rust is red on the hill;
The pines stand brooding, somber and still;
Gray are the cliffs, and the waters gray,
Where the seagulls dip to the sea-born spray.
Sad November, lady of rain,
Sends the goose-wedge over again.
Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth,Falls the sunlight over the earth;Kildees call from the fields where nowThe banding blackbirds follow the plow;Rustling poplar and brittle weedWhisper low to the river-reed.
Wilder now, for the verdure’s birth,
Falls the sunlight over the earth;
Kildees call from the fields where now
The banding blackbirds follow the plow;
Rustling poplar and brittle weed
Whisper low to the river-reed.
Days departing linger and sigh:Stars come soon to the quiet sky;Buried voices, intimate, strange,Cry to body and soul of change;Beauty, eternal fugitive,Seeks the home that we cannot give.
Days departing linger and sigh:
Stars come soon to the quiet sky;
Buried voices, intimate, strange,
Cry to body and soul of change;
Beauty, eternal fugitive,
Seeks the home that we cannot give.