DOLCE FAR NIENTE

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay:Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold,Or down the path in insolence held sway—Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway—Scarlet and buff, within a garden old.Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town:Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewedThe purple west as if, with God imbued,Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,Fair as a star that comes to emphasizeThe mingled beauty of the earth and air.Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,Gray with its twinkling windows—like the faceOf calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.For whom she waited in the afterglow,Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the poppy and rose,I do not know, I do not care to know:—It is enough I keep her picture so,Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.A fragrant picture, where I still may findHer face untouched of sorrow or regret,Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay:

Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold,

Or down the path in insolence held sway—

Like cavaliers who ride the king's highway—

Scarlet and buff, within a garden old.

Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town:Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewedThe purple west as if, with God imbued,Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.

Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,

Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town:

Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewed

The purple west as if, with God imbued,

Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.

Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,Fair as a star that comes to emphasizeThe mingled beauty of the earth and air.

Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,

Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,

She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,

Fair as a star that comes to emphasize

The mingled beauty of the earth and air.

Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,Gray with its twinkling windows—like the faceOf calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.

Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,

Gray with its twinkling windows—like the face

Of calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—

Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,

The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.

For whom she waited in the afterglow,Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the poppy and rose,I do not know, I do not care to know:—It is enough I keep her picture so,Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.

For whom she waited in the afterglow,

Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the poppy and rose,

I do not know, I do not care to know:—

It is enough I keep her picture so,

Hung up, like poetry, in my life's dull prose.

A fragrant picture, where I still may findHer face untouched of sorrow or regret,Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

A fragrant picture, where I still may find

Her face untouched of sorrow or regret,

Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,

The spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,

She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

IOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Far to the east lay the ocean palingUnder the skies of Augustine.—There, in the boat as we sat together,Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,Fair of form and of face serene,Sweet at my side I felt you lean,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Pine and palm, in the west, hung, trailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the wind that sighed above you?Was it the wave that whispered of you?Was it my soul that said, "I love you"?Was it your heart that murmured between,Answering, shy as a bird unseen?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IIIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Gray and low flew the heron, wailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Naught was spoken. We watched the simpleGulls wing past. Your hat's white wimpleShadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple,Smiled and seemed from your soul to weanAn inner beauty, an added sheen,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IVOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Red on the marshes the day flamed, failingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it your thought, or the transitoryGold of the west, like a written story,Bright on your brow, that I read? the gloryAnd grace of love, like a rose-crowned queenPictured pensive in mind and mien?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.VOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Wan on the waters the mist lay, veilingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?—Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrowPrescience sad of a far To-morrow,—There in the Now that was all too keen,That shadowed the fate that might intervene?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.VIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—And so we parted. No vows were spoken.No faith was plighted that might be broken.But deep in our hearts each bore a tokenOf life and of love and all they mean,Beautiful, thornless, and ever green,From over the bay where our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.St. Augustine, Fla., February, 1899.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Far to the east lay the ocean palingUnder the skies of Augustine.—There, in the boat as we sat together,Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,Fair of form and of face serene,Sweet at my side I felt you lean,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

Far to the east lay the ocean paling

Under the skies of Augustine.—

There, in the boat as we sat together,

Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,

Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,

Fair of form and of face serene,

Sweet at my side I felt you lean,

As over the bay our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Pine and palm, in the west, hung, trailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the wind that sighed above you?Was it the wave that whispered of you?Was it my soul that said, "I love you"?Was it your heart that murmured between,Answering, shy as a bird unseen?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

Pine and palm, in the west, hung, trailing

Under the skies of Augustine.—

Was it the wind that sighed above you?

Was it the wave that whispered of you?

Was it my soul that said, "I love you"?

Was it your heart that murmured between,

Answering, shy as a bird unseen?

As over the bay our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

III

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Gray and low flew the heron, wailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Naught was spoken. We watched the simpleGulls wing past. Your hat's white wimpleShadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple,Smiled and seemed from your soul to weanAn inner beauty, an added sheen,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

Gray and low flew the heron, wailing

Under the skies of Augustine.—

Naught was spoken. We watched the simple

Gulls wing past. Your hat's white wimple

Shadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple,

Smiled and seemed from your soul to wean

An inner beauty, an added sheen,

As over the bay our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Red on the marshes the day flamed, failingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it your thought, or the transitoryGold of the west, like a written story,Bright on your brow, that I read? the gloryAnd grace of love, like a rose-crowned queenPictured pensive in mind and mien?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

Red on the marshes the day flamed, failing

Under the skies of Augustine.—

Was it your thought, or the transitory

Gold of the west, like a written story,

Bright on your brow, that I read? the glory

And grace of love, like a rose-crowned queen

Pictured pensive in mind and mien?

As over the bay our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Wan on the waters the mist lay, veilingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?—Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrowPrescience sad of a far To-morrow,—There in the Now that was all too keen,That shadowed the fate that might intervene?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

Wan on the waters the mist lay, veiling

Under the skies of Augustine.—

Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?—

Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrow

Prescience sad of a far To-morrow,—

There in the Now that was all too keen,

That shadowed the fate that might intervene?

As over the bay our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—And so we parted. No vows were spoken.No faith was plighted that might be broken.But deep in our hearts each bore a tokenOf life and of love and all they mean,Beautiful, thornless, and ever green,From over the bay where our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

Over the bay as our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine,

The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailing

Under the skies of Augustine.—

And so we parted. No vows were spoken.

No faith was plighted that might be broken.

But deep in our hearts each bore a token

Of life and of love and all they mean,

Beautiful, thornless, and ever green,

From over the bay where our boat went sailing

Under the skies of Augustine.

St. Augustine, Fla., February, 1899.

Far in the purple valleys of illusionI see her waiting, like the soul of music,With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies,Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison;With red lips sweeter than Arabian storax,Yet bitterer than myrrh. O tears and kisses!O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul forever!Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:The woods are hushed: the vales are full of shadows:Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burningThe sunset's wild sciography: and slowlyThe moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's statelyWhite queen of love and tragedy and madness.Again I know forgotten dreams and longings;Ideals lost; desires dead and buriedBeside the altar sacrifice erectedWithin the heart's high sanctuary. StrangelyAgain I know the horror and the rapture,The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish,The terror and the worship of the spirit.Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me;Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,Velvet and flame, through which her strong will holds me,Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onwardTo sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings,Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human—To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.Again I feel her lips like ice and fire,Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax,Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destructionLies serpent-like. Intoxicating languorsResistlessly embrace me, soul and body;And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing—Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.

Far in the purple valleys of illusion

I see her waiting, like the soul of music,

With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies,

Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison;

With red lips sweeter than Arabian storax,

Yet bitterer than myrrh. O tears and kisses!

O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul forever!

Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:The woods are hushed: the vales are full of shadows:Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burningThe sunset's wild sciography: and slowlyThe moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's statelyWhite queen of love and tragedy and madness.

Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:

The woods are hushed: the vales are full of shadows:

Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,

Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burning

The sunset's wild sciography: and slowly

The moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's stately

White queen of love and tragedy and madness.

Again I know forgotten dreams and longings;Ideals lost; desires dead and buriedBeside the altar sacrifice erectedWithin the heart's high sanctuary. StrangelyAgain I know the horror and the rapture,The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish,The terror and the worship of the spirit.

Again I know forgotten dreams and longings;

Ideals lost; desires dead and buried

Beside the altar sacrifice erected

Within the heart's high sanctuary. Strangely

Again I know the horror and the rapture,

The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish,

The terror and the worship of the spirit.

Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me;Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,Velvet and flame, through which her strong will holds me,Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onwardTo sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings,Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human—To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.

Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me;

Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,

Velvet and flame, through which her strong will holds me,

Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onward

To sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings,

Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human—

To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom.

Again I feel her lips like ice and fire,Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax,Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destructionLies serpent-like. Intoxicating languorsResistlessly embrace me, soul and body;And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing—Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.

Again I feel her lips like ice and fire,

Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax,

Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destruction

Lies serpent-like. Intoxicating languors

Resistlessly embrace me, soul and body;

And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing—

Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm.

ISo we had come at last, my soul and I,Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,On which the dawn seemed ever about to break,On which the day seemed ever about to die.IILong had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,That blooms eternal by eternal streams.IIIAnd, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweetImmortal presence, Love; the bird DelightBeside her; and, eyed with sideral night,Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.IVBut, scorched and barren, in its arid well,We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,Among wild weeds, Truth's trampled asphodel.VAnd side by side with pallid Doubt and Pain,Not Love, but Grief did meet us there: afarWe saw her, like a melancholy star,A pensive moon, move towards us o'er the plain.VISweet was her face as song that tells of home;And filled our hearts with vague, suggestive spellsOf pathos, as sad ocean fills its shellsWith sympathetic moanings of the foam.VIIShe raised one hand and pointed silently,And passed; her eyes, gaunt with a thirst unslaked,Were worlds of woe, where tears in torrents ached,Yet never fell. And like a winter sea,—VIIIWhose caverned crags are haunts of wreck and wrath,That house the condor pinions of the storm,—My soul replied; and, weeping, arm in arm,To'ards those dim hills, by that appointed path,IXWe turned and went. Arrived, we did discernHow Beauty beckoned, white 'mid miles of flowers,Through which, behold, the amaranthine HoursLike maidens went, each holding high an urn;XWherein, it seemed—drained from long chalicesOf those slim flowers—they bore mysterious wine;A poppied vintage, full of sleep divine,And pale forgetting of all miseries.XIThen to my soul I said, "No longer weep.Come, let us drink; for hateful is the sky,And earth is full of care, and life's a lie.So let us drink; yea, let us drink and sleep."XIIThen from their brimming urns we drank sweet must,While all around us rose-crowned faces laughedInto our own: but hardly had we quaffedWhen, one by one, these crumbled into dust.XIIIAnd league on league the eminence of blooms,That flashed and billowed like a summer sea,Rolled out a waste of thorns and tombs; where beeAnd butterfly and bird hung dead in loomsXIVOf worm and spider. And through tomb and brier,A thin wind, parched with bitter salt and sand,Went wailing as if mourning some lost landOf perished empire, Babylon or Tyre.XVLong, long with blistered feet we wandered inThat land of ruins, through whose sky of brassHate's harpy shrieked; and in whose iron grassThe hydra hissed of undestroyable Sin.XVIAnd there at last, behold, the House of Doom,—Red, as if Hell had glared it into life,Blood-red, and howling with incessant strife,—With burning battlements, towered through the gloom.XVIIAnd throned within sat Darkness.—Who might gazeUpon that form, that threatening presence there,Crowned with the flickering corpse-lights of Despair,And yet escape sans madness and amaze?XVIIIAnd we had hoped to find among these hillsThe House of Beauty!—Curst, yea thrice accurst,The hope that lures one on from last to firstWith vain illusions that no time fulfills!XIXWhy will we struggle to attain, and strive,When all we gain is but an empty dream?—Better, unto my thinking, doth it seemTo end it all and let who will survive:XXTo find at last all beauty is but dust:That love and sorrow are the very same:That joy is only suffering's sweeter name:And sense is but the synonym of lust.XXIFar better, yea, to me it seems, to die!To set glad lips against the lips of Death—The only thing God gives that comforteth,The only thing we do not find a lie.

So we had come at last, my soul and I,Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,On which the dawn seemed ever about to break,On which the day seemed ever about to die.

So we had come at last, my soul and I,

Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,

On which the dawn seemed ever about to break,

On which the day seemed ever about to die.

Long had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,That blooms eternal by eternal streams.

Long had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,

The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;

Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,

That blooms eternal by eternal streams.

III

And, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweetImmortal presence, Love; the bird DelightBeside her; and, eyed with sideral night,Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.

And, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweet

Immortal presence, Love; the bird Delight

Beside her; and, eyed with sideral night,

Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.

But, scorched and barren, in its arid well,We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,Among wild weeds, Truth's trampled asphodel.

But, scorched and barren, in its arid well,

We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;

And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,

Among wild weeds, Truth's trampled asphodel.

And side by side with pallid Doubt and Pain,Not Love, but Grief did meet us there: afarWe saw her, like a melancholy star,A pensive moon, move towards us o'er the plain.

And side by side with pallid Doubt and Pain,

Not Love, but Grief did meet us there: afar

We saw her, like a melancholy star,

A pensive moon, move towards us o'er the plain.

Sweet was her face as song that tells of home;And filled our hearts with vague, suggestive spellsOf pathos, as sad ocean fills its shellsWith sympathetic moanings of the foam.

Sweet was her face as song that tells of home;

And filled our hearts with vague, suggestive spells

Of pathos, as sad ocean fills its shells

With sympathetic moanings of the foam.

VII

She raised one hand and pointed silently,And passed; her eyes, gaunt with a thirst unslaked,Were worlds of woe, where tears in torrents ached,Yet never fell. And like a winter sea,—

She raised one hand and pointed silently,

And passed; her eyes, gaunt with a thirst unslaked,

Were worlds of woe, where tears in torrents ached,

Yet never fell. And like a winter sea,—

VIII

Whose caverned crags are haunts of wreck and wrath,That house the condor pinions of the storm,—My soul replied; and, weeping, arm in arm,To'ards those dim hills, by that appointed path,

Whose caverned crags are haunts of wreck and wrath,

That house the condor pinions of the storm,—

My soul replied; and, weeping, arm in arm,

To'ards those dim hills, by that appointed path,

We turned and went. Arrived, we did discernHow Beauty beckoned, white 'mid miles of flowers,Through which, behold, the amaranthine HoursLike maidens went, each holding high an urn;

We turned and went. Arrived, we did discern

How Beauty beckoned, white 'mid miles of flowers,

Through which, behold, the amaranthine Hours

Like maidens went, each holding high an urn;

Wherein, it seemed—drained from long chalicesOf those slim flowers—they bore mysterious wine;A poppied vintage, full of sleep divine,And pale forgetting of all miseries.

Wherein, it seemed—drained from long chalices

Of those slim flowers—they bore mysterious wine;

A poppied vintage, full of sleep divine,

And pale forgetting of all miseries.

Then to my soul I said, "No longer weep.Come, let us drink; for hateful is the sky,And earth is full of care, and life's a lie.So let us drink; yea, let us drink and sleep."

Then to my soul I said, "No longer weep.

Come, let us drink; for hateful is the sky,

And earth is full of care, and life's a lie.

So let us drink; yea, let us drink and sleep."

XII

Then from their brimming urns we drank sweet must,While all around us rose-crowned faces laughedInto our own: but hardly had we quaffedWhen, one by one, these crumbled into dust.

Then from their brimming urns we drank sweet must,

While all around us rose-crowned faces laughed

Into our own: but hardly had we quaffed

When, one by one, these crumbled into dust.

XIII

And league on league the eminence of blooms,That flashed and billowed like a summer sea,Rolled out a waste of thorns and tombs; where beeAnd butterfly and bird hung dead in looms

And league on league the eminence of blooms,

That flashed and billowed like a summer sea,

Rolled out a waste of thorns and tombs; where bee

And butterfly and bird hung dead in looms

XIV

Of worm and spider. And through tomb and brier,A thin wind, parched with bitter salt and sand,Went wailing as if mourning some lost landOf perished empire, Babylon or Tyre.

Of worm and spider. And through tomb and brier,

A thin wind, parched with bitter salt and sand,

Went wailing as if mourning some lost land

Of perished empire, Babylon or Tyre.

Long, long with blistered feet we wandered inThat land of ruins, through whose sky of brassHate's harpy shrieked; and in whose iron grassThe hydra hissed of undestroyable Sin.

Long, long with blistered feet we wandered in

That land of ruins, through whose sky of brass

Hate's harpy shrieked; and in whose iron grass

The hydra hissed of undestroyable Sin.

XVI

And there at last, behold, the House of Doom,—Red, as if Hell had glared it into life,Blood-red, and howling with incessant strife,—With burning battlements, towered through the gloom.

And there at last, behold, the House of Doom,—

Red, as if Hell had glared it into life,

Blood-red, and howling with incessant strife,—

With burning battlements, towered through the gloom.

XVII

And throned within sat Darkness.—Who might gazeUpon that form, that threatening presence there,Crowned with the flickering corpse-lights of Despair,And yet escape sans madness and amaze?

And throned within sat Darkness.—Who might gaze

Upon that form, that threatening presence there,

Crowned with the flickering corpse-lights of Despair,

And yet escape sans madness and amaze?

XVIII

And we had hoped to find among these hillsThe House of Beauty!—Curst, yea thrice accurst,The hope that lures one on from last to firstWith vain illusions that no time fulfills!

And we had hoped to find among these hills

The House of Beauty!—Curst, yea thrice accurst,

The hope that lures one on from last to first

With vain illusions that no time fulfills!

XIX

Why will we struggle to attain, and strive,When all we gain is but an empty dream?—Better, unto my thinking, doth it seemTo end it all and let who will survive:

Why will we struggle to attain, and strive,

When all we gain is but an empty dream?—

Better, unto my thinking, doth it seem

To end it all and let who will survive:

To find at last all beauty is but dust:That love and sorrow are the very same:That joy is only suffering's sweeter name:And sense is but the synonym of lust.

To find at last all beauty is but dust:

That love and sorrow are the very same:

That joy is only suffering's sweeter name:

And sense is but the synonym of lust.

XXI

Far better, yea, to me it seems, to die!To set glad lips against the lips of Death—The only thing God gives that comforteth,The only thing we do not find a lie.

Far better, yea, to me it seems, to die!

To set glad lips against the lips of Death—

The only thing God gives that comforteth,

The only thing we do not find a lie.

She sleeps: he sings to her: the day was long,And, tired out with too much happiness,She fain would have him sing of old Provence;Old songs, that spoke of love in such soft tones,Her restless soul was straight besieged of dreams,And her wild heart beleaguered of deep peace,And heart and soul surrendered unto sleep.—Like perfect sculpture in the moon she lies,Its pallor on her through heraldic panesOf one tall casement's guléd quarterings.—Beside her couch, an antique table, weighedWith gold and crystal; here, a carven chair,Whereon her raiment,—that suggests sweet curvesOf shapely beauty,—bearing her limbs' impress,Is richly laid: and, near the chair, a glass,An oval mirror framed in ebony:And, dim and deep,—investing all the roomWith ghostly life of woven women and men,And strange, fantastic gloom, where shadows move,—Dark tapestry,—which in the gusts—that twingeA dropping cresset's slender star of light—Seems swayed of cautious hands, assassin-like,That bide their hour.She alone, deep-hairedAs golden dawn, and whiter than a rose,Divinely breasted as the Queen of Love,Lies robeless in the glimmer of the moon,Like Danaë within the golden shower.Seated beside her aromatic rest,In silence musing on her loveliness,Her knight and troubadour. A lute, aslopeThe curious baldric of his tunic, glintsPearl-caught reflections of the moon, that seemThe voiceless ghosts of long-dead melodies.In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,Like stately twilight over slopes of snow,He leans above her.—Have his hands forgotTheir craft, that now they pause upon the strings?His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—His eyes are set ... What is it stills to stoneHis hands? his lips? and mails him, head and heel,In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—Behind the arras, can it be he feels,Black-browed and grim, with eyes of sombre fire,Death towers above him with uplifted sword?

She sleeps: he sings to her: the day was long,

And, tired out with too much happiness,

She fain would have him sing of old Provence;

Old songs, that spoke of love in such soft tones,

Her restless soul was straight besieged of dreams,

And her wild heart beleaguered of deep peace,

And heart and soul surrendered unto sleep.—

Like perfect sculpture in the moon she lies,

Its pallor on her through heraldic panes

Of one tall casement's guléd quarterings.—

Beside her couch, an antique table, weighed

With gold and crystal; here, a carven chair,

Whereon her raiment,—that suggests sweet curves

Of shapely beauty,—bearing her limbs' impress,

Is richly laid: and, near the chair, a glass,

An oval mirror framed in ebony:

And, dim and deep,—investing all the room

With ghostly life of woven women and men,

And strange, fantastic gloom, where shadows move,—

Dark tapestry,—which in the gusts—that twinge

A dropping cresset's slender star of light—

Seems swayed of cautious hands, assassin-like,

That bide their hour.

She alone, deep-hairedAs golden dawn, and whiter than a rose,Divinely breasted as the Queen of Love,Lies robeless in the glimmer of the moon,Like Danaë within the golden shower.Seated beside her aromatic rest,In silence musing on her loveliness,Her knight and troubadour. A lute, aslopeThe curious baldric of his tunic, glintsPearl-caught reflections of the moon, that seemThe voiceless ghosts of long-dead melodies.In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,Like stately twilight over slopes of snow,He leans above her.—

She alone, deep-haired

As golden dawn, and whiter than a rose,

Divinely breasted as the Queen of Love,

Lies robeless in the glimmer of the moon,

Like Danaë within the golden shower.

Seated beside her aromatic rest,

In silence musing on her loveliness,

Her knight and troubadour. A lute, aslope

The curious baldric of his tunic, glints

Pearl-caught reflections of the moon, that seem

The voiceless ghosts of long-dead melodies.

In purple and sable, slashed with solemn gold,

Like stately twilight over slopes of snow,

He leans above her.—

Have his hands forgotTheir craft, that now they pause upon the strings?His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—His eyes are set ... What is it stills to stoneHis hands? his lips? and mails him, head and heel,In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—Behind the arras, can it be he feels,Black-browed and grim, with eyes of sombre fire,Death towers above him with uplifted sword?

Have his hands forgot

Their craft, that now they pause upon the strings?

His lips, their art, that they cease, speechless there?—

His eyes are set ... What is it stills to stone

His hands? his lips? and mails him, head and heel,

In terrible marble, motionless and cold?—

Behind the arras, can it be he feels,

Black-browed and grim, with eyes of sombre fire,

Death towers above him with uplifted sword?

Below, the tawny Tagus sweptPast royal gardens, breathing balm:Upon his couch the monarch slept;The world was still; the night was calm.Gray, Gothic-gated, in the rayOf moonrise, tower and castle-crowned,The city of Toledo layBeneath the terraced palace-ground.Again, he dreamed, in kingly sportHe sought the tree-sequestered path,And watched the ladies of his CourtWithin the marble-basined bath.Its porphyry stairs and fountained baseShone, houried with voluptuous forms,Where Andalusia vied in graceWith old Castile, in female charms.And laughter, song, and water-splashRang round the place, with rock arcaded,As here a breast or limb would flashWhere beauty swam or beauty waded.And then, like Venus, from the waveA maiden came, and stood below;And by her side a woman slaveBent down to dry her limbs of snow.Then on the tesselated bank,Robed on with fragrance and with fire,—Like some exotic flower—she sank,The type of all divine desire.Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet,She parted from her perfect brows,And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jetLit in an alabaster house.And in his sleep the monarch sighed,"Florinda!"—Dreaming still he moaned,"Ah, would that I had died, had died!I have atoned! I have atoned!"...And then the vision changed: O'erheadTempest and darkness were unrolled,Full of wild voices of the dead,And lamentations manifold.And wandering shapes of gaunt despairSwept by; and faces pale with pain,Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glareFierce curses on him through the rain.And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skiesA necromantic tower sate,Crag-like on crags, of giant size;With adamatine wall and gate.And from the storm a hand of might,Red-rolled in thunder, reached amongThe gate's huge bolts, that burst—and nightClanged ruin as its hinges swung.Then far away a murmur trailed,—As of sad seas on cavern'd shores,—That grew into a voice that wailed,"They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"And with deep boom of atabalsAnd crash of cymbals and wild pealOf battle-bugles, from its wallsAn army rushed in glimmering steel.And where it trod he saw the torchOf conflagration stalk the skies,And in the vanward of its marchThe monster form of Havoc rise.And Paynim war-cries rent the storm,Athwart whose firmament of flameDestruction reared an earthquake formOn wreck and death without a name....And then again the vision changed:Where flows the Guadelete, see,The champions of the Cross are rangedAgainst the Crescent's chivalry.With roar of trumpets and of drumsThey meet; and in the battle's vanHe fights; and, towering towards him, comesFlorinda's father, Julian;And one-eyed Taric, great in war:And where these couch their burning spears,The Christian phalanx, near and far,Goes down like corn before the shears.The Moslem wins: the Christian flies:"Allah il Allah," hill and plainReverberate: the rocking skies,"Allah il Allah," shout again.And then he dreamed the swing of swordsAnd hurl of arrows were no more;And stranger than the howling hordesDeep silence fell on field and shore.And through the night, it seemed, he fled,Upon a white steed like a star,Across a field of endless dead,Beneath a blood-red scimitarOf sunset: And he heard a moan,Beneath, around, on every hand—"Accurséd! Yea, what hast thou doneTo bring this curse upon thy land?"And then an awful sense of wings:And, lo! the answer—"'Twas his lustThat was his crime. Behold! e'en kingsMust reckon with Me. God is just."

Below, the tawny Tagus sweptPast royal gardens, breathing balm:Upon his couch the monarch slept;The world was still; the night was calm.

Below, the tawny Tagus swept

Past royal gardens, breathing balm:

Upon his couch the monarch slept;

The world was still; the night was calm.

Gray, Gothic-gated, in the rayOf moonrise, tower and castle-crowned,The city of Toledo layBeneath the terraced palace-ground.

Gray, Gothic-gated, in the ray

Of moonrise, tower and castle-crowned,

The city of Toledo lay

Beneath the terraced palace-ground.

Again, he dreamed, in kingly sportHe sought the tree-sequestered path,And watched the ladies of his CourtWithin the marble-basined bath.

Again, he dreamed, in kingly sport

He sought the tree-sequestered path,

And watched the ladies of his Court

Within the marble-basined bath.

Its porphyry stairs and fountained baseShone, houried with voluptuous forms,Where Andalusia vied in graceWith old Castile, in female charms.

Its porphyry stairs and fountained base

Shone, houried with voluptuous forms,

Where Andalusia vied in grace

With old Castile, in female charms.

And laughter, song, and water-splashRang round the place, with rock arcaded,As here a breast or limb would flashWhere beauty swam or beauty waded.

And laughter, song, and water-splash

Rang round the place, with rock arcaded,

As here a breast or limb would flash

Where beauty swam or beauty waded.

And then, like Venus, from the waveA maiden came, and stood below;And by her side a woman slaveBent down to dry her limbs of snow.

And then, like Venus, from the wave

A maiden came, and stood below;

And by her side a woman slave

Bent down to dry her limbs of snow.

Then on the tesselated bank,Robed on with fragrance and with fire,—Like some exotic flower—she sank,The type of all divine desire.

Then on the tesselated bank,

Robed on with fragrance and with fire,—

Like some exotic flower—she sank,

The type of all divine desire.

Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet,She parted from her perfect brows,And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jetLit in an alabaster house.

Then her dark curls, that sparkled wet,

She parted from her perfect brows,

And, lo, her eyes, like lamps of jet

Lit in an alabaster house.

And in his sleep the monarch sighed,"Florinda!"—Dreaming still he moaned,"Ah, would that I had died, had died!I have atoned! I have atoned!"...

And in his sleep the monarch sighed,

"Florinda!"—Dreaming still he moaned,

"Ah, would that I had died, had died!

I have atoned! I have atoned!"...

And then the vision changed: O'erheadTempest and darkness were unrolled,Full of wild voices of the dead,And lamentations manifold.

And then the vision changed: O'erhead

Tempest and darkness were unrolled,

Full of wild voices of the dead,

And lamentations manifold.

And wandering shapes of gaunt despairSwept by; and faces pale with pain,Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glareFierce curses on him through the rain.

And wandering shapes of gaunt despair

Swept by; and faces pale with pain,

Whose eyes wept blood and seemed to glare

Fierce curses on him through the rain.

And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skiesA necromantic tower sate,Crag-like on crags, of giant size;With adamatine wall and gate.

And then, it seemed, 'gainst blazing skies

A necromantic tower sate,

Crag-like on crags, of giant size;

With adamatine wall and gate.

And from the storm a hand of might,Red-rolled in thunder, reached amongThe gate's huge bolts, that burst—and nightClanged ruin as its hinges swung.

And from the storm a hand of might,

Red-rolled in thunder, reached among

The gate's huge bolts, that burst—and night

Clanged ruin as its hinges swung.

Then far away a murmur trailed,—As of sad seas on cavern'd shores,—That grew into a voice that wailed,"They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"

Then far away a murmur trailed,—

As of sad seas on cavern'd shores,—

That grew into a voice that wailed,

"They come! they come! the Moors! the Moors!"

And with deep boom of atabalsAnd crash of cymbals and wild pealOf battle-bugles, from its wallsAn army rushed in glimmering steel.

And with deep boom of atabals

And crash of cymbals and wild peal

Of battle-bugles, from its walls

An army rushed in glimmering steel.

And where it trod he saw the torchOf conflagration stalk the skies,And in the vanward of its marchThe monster form of Havoc rise.

And where it trod he saw the torch

Of conflagration stalk the skies,

And in the vanward of its march

The monster form of Havoc rise.

And Paynim war-cries rent the storm,Athwart whose firmament of flameDestruction reared an earthquake formOn wreck and death without a name....

And Paynim war-cries rent the storm,

Athwart whose firmament of flame

Destruction reared an earthquake form

On wreck and death without a name....

And then again the vision changed:Where flows the Guadelete, see,The champions of the Cross are rangedAgainst the Crescent's chivalry.

And then again the vision changed:

Where flows the Guadelete, see,

The champions of the Cross are ranged

Against the Crescent's chivalry.

With roar of trumpets and of drumsThey meet; and in the battle's vanHe fights; and, towering towards him, comesFlorinda's father, Julian;

With roar of trumpets and of drums

They meet; and in the battle's van

He fights; and, towering towards him, comes

Florinda's father, Julian;

And one-eyed Taric, great in war:And where these couch their burning spears,The Christian phalanx, near and far,Goes down like corn before the shears.

And one-eyed Taric, great in war:

And where these couch their burning spears,

The Christian phalanx, near and far,

Goes down like corn before the shears.

The Moslem wins: the Christian flies:"Allah il Allah," hill and plainReverberate: the rocking skies,"Allah il Allah," shout again.

The Moslem wins: the Christian flies:

"Allah il Allah," hill and plain

Reverberate: the rocking skies,

"Allah il Allah," shout again.

And then he dreamed the swing of swordsAnd hurl of arrows were no more;And stranger than the howling hordesDeep silence fell on field and shore.

And then he dreamed the swing of swords

And hurl of arrows were no more;

And stranger than the howling hordes

Deep silence fell on field and shore.

And through the night, it seemed, he fled,Upon a white steed like a star,Across a field of endless dead,Beneath a blood-red scimitar

And through the night, it seemed, he fled,

Upon a white steed like a star,

Across a field of endless dead,

Beneath a blood-red scimitar

Of sunset: And he heard a moan,Beneath, around, on every hand—"Accurséd! Yea, what hast thou doneTo bring this curse upon thy land?"

Of sunset: And he heard a moan,

Beneath, around, on every hand—

"Accurséd! Yea, what hast thou done

To bring this curse upon thy land?"

And then an awful sense of wings:And, lo! the answer—"'Twas his lustThat was his crime. Behold! e'en kingsMust reckon with Me. God is just."

And then an awful sense of wings:

And, lo! the answer—"'Twas his lust

That was his crime. Behold! e'en kings

Must reckon with Me. God is just."

The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,Where, foaming under the mountain spines,The Inn's long water sounds and shines.Beyond, are peaks where the morning weavesAn icy rose; and the evening leavesThe golden ghosts of a thousand sheaves.Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,The great, round moon in a mountain crease,And a song of love make the nights all peace.Beneath the blue Tyrolean skiesOn the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,The storied city of Innsbruck lies.With its mediæval streets, that crook,And its gabled houses, it has the lookOf a belfried town in a fairy book.So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said,When the storm is out and the town in bed,The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.And oft the burgher, sitting hereIn his walled rose-garden, hears the clearShrill scream of the eagle circling near.And this is the tale that the burghers tell:—The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cellWhere the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.A mighty summit of bluffs and cragsThat frowns on the Inn; where the forest stagsHave worn a path to the water-flags.The Abbot of Wiltau stood below;And he was aware of a plume and bowOn the precipice there in the morning's glow,A chamois, he saw, from span to spanHad leapt; and after it leapt a man;And he knew 'twas the Kaiser Maximilian.But, see! though rash as the chamois he,His foot less sure. And verilyIf the King should miss ... "Jesu! Marie!"The King hath missed!"—And, look, he falls!Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.What Saint shall save him on whom he calls?What Saint shall save him, who struggles thereOn the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair,With hook'd hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?The Abbot crosses himself in dread—"Let prayers go up for the nearly dead,And the passing-bell be tolled," he said."For the House of Hapsburg totters! See,How raveled the thread of its destiny,Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply,Is it an eagle's echoing cry?And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?No voice of the eagle is that which rings!And the shadow, a wiry man who swingsDown, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.Thecramponsbound to his feet, he leapsLike a chamois now; and again he creepsOr twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps."By his cross-bow, baldric, and cap's black curl,"Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!'Tis the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl."Upon whose head, or dead or alive,The Kaiser hath posted a price.—Saints shriveThe King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive"To save him now that his foe is there?"—But, hark! again through the breathless airWhat words are those that the echoes bear?"Courage, my King!—To the rescue, ho!"The wild voice rings like a twanging bow,And the staring Abbot stands mute below.And, lo! the hand of the outlaw graspsThe arm of the King—and death unclaspsIts fleshless fingers from him who gasps.And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedgeThem flat to their brows; by chasm and ledgeHe helps the King from the merciless edge.Then up and up, past bluffs that shunThe rashest chamois; where eagles sunGreat wings and brood; where the mists are spun.And safe at last stand Kaiser and churlOn the mountain path where the mosses curl—And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.

The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,Where, foaming under the mountain spines,The Inn's long water sounds and shines.

The Alps of the Tyrol are dark with pines,

Where, foaming under the mountain spines,

The Inn's long water sounds and shines.

Beyond, are peaks where the morning weavesAn icy rose; and the evening leavesThe golden ghosts of a thousand sheaves.

Beyond, are peaks where the morning weaves

An icy rose; and the evening leaves

The golden ghosts of a thousand sheaves.

Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.

Deep vines and torrents and glimmering haze,

And sheep-bells tinkling on mountain ways,

And fluting shepherds make sweet the days.

The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,The great, round moon in a mountain crease,And a song of love make the nights all peace.

The rolling mist, like a wandering fleece,

The great, round moon in a mountain crease,

And a song of love make the nights all peace.

Beneath the blue Tyrolean skiesOn the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,The storied city of Innsbruck lies.

Beneath the blue Tyrolean skies

On the banks of the Inn, that foams and flies,

The storied city of Innsbruck lies.

With its mediæval streets, that crook,And its gabled houses, it has the lookOf a belfried town in a fairy book.

With its mediæval streets, that crook,

And its gabled houses, it has the look

Of a belfried town in a fairy book.

So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said,When the storm is out and the town in bed,The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.

So wild the Tyrol that oft, 'tis said,

When the storm is out and the town in bed,

The howling of wolves sweeps overhead.

And oft the burgher, sitting hereIn his walled rose-garden, hears the clearShrill scream of the eagle circling near.

And oft the burgher, sitting here

In his walled rose-garden, hears the clear

Shrill scream of the eagle circling near.

And this is the tale that the burghers tell:—The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cellWhere the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.

And this is the tale that the burghers tell:—

The Abbot of Wiltau stood at his cell

Where the Solstein lifts its pinnacle.

A mighty summit of bluffs and cragsThat frowns on the Inn; where the forest stagsHave worn a path to the water-flags.

A mighty summit of bluffs and crags

That frowns on the Inn; where the forest stags

Have worn a path to the water-flags.

The Abbot of Wiltau stood below;And he was aware of a plume and bowOn the precipice there in the morning's glow,

The Abbot of Wiltau stood below;

And he was aware of a plume and bow

On the precipice there in the morning's glow,

A chamois, he saw, from span to spanHad leapt; and after it leapt a man;And he knew 'twas the Kaiser Maximilian.

A chamois, he saw, from span to span

Had leapt; and after it leapt a man;

And he knew 'twas the Kaiser Maximilian.

But, see! though rash as the chamois he,His foot less sure. And verilyIf the King should miss ... "Jesu! Marie!

But, see! though rash as the chamois he,

His foot less sure. And verily

If the King should miss ... "Jesu! Marie!

"The King hath missed!"—And, look, he falls!Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.What Saint shall save him on whom he calls?

"The King hath missed!"—And, look, he falls!

Rolls headlong out to the headlong walls.

What Saint shall save him on whom he calls?

What Saint shall save him, who struggles thereOn the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair,With hook'd hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?

What Saint shall save him, who struggles there

On the narrow ledge by the eagle's lair,

With hook'd hands clinging 'twixt earth and air?

The Abbot crosses himself in dread—"Let prayers go up for the nearly dead,And the passing-bell be tolled," he said.

The Abbot crosses himself in dread—

"Let prayers go up for the nearly dead,

And the passing-bell be tolled," he said.

"For the House of Hapsburg totters! See,How raveled the thread of its destiny,Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.

"For the House of Hapsburg totters! See,

How raveled the thread of its destiny,

Sheer hung between cloud and rock!" quoth he.

But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply,Is it an eagle's echoing cry?And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?

But hark! where the steeps of the peak reply,

Is it an eagle's echoing cry?

And the flitting shadow, its plumes on high?

No voice of the eagle is that which rings!And the shadow, a wiry man who swingsDown, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.

No voice of the eagle is that which rings!

And the shadow, a wiry man who swings

Down, down where the desperate Kaiser clings.

Thecramponsbound to his feet, he leapsLike a chamois now; and again he creepsOr twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps.

Thecramponsbound to his feet, he leaps

Like a chamois now; and again he creeps

Or twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps.

"By his cross-bow, baldric, and cap's black curl,"Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!'Tis the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl.

"By his cross-bow, baldric, and cap's black curl,"

Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl!

'Tis the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl.

"Upon whose head, or dead or alive,The Kaiser hath posted a price.—Saints shriveThe King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive

"Upon whose head, or dead or alive,

The Kaiser hath posted a price.—Saints shrive

The King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive

"To save him now that his foe is there?"—But, hark! again through the breathless airWhat words are those that the echoes bear?

"To save him now that his foe is there?"—

But, hark! again through the breathless air

What words are those that the echoes bear?

"Courage, my King!—To the rescue, ho!"The wild voice rings like a twanging bow,And the staring Abbot stands mute below.

"Courage, my King!—To the rescue, ho!"

The wild voice rings like a twanging bow,

And the staring Abbot stands mute below.

And, lo! the hand of the outlaw graspsThe arm of the King—and death unclaspsIts fleshless fingers from him who gasps.

And, lo! the hand of the outlaw grasps

The arm of the King—and death unclasps

Its fleshless fingers from him who gasps.

And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedgeThem flat to their brows; by chasm and ledgeHe helps the King from the merciless edge.

And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedge

Them flat to their brows; by chasm and ledge

He helps the King from the merciless edge.

Then up and up, past bluffs that shunThe rashest chamois; where eagles sunGreat wings and brood; where the mists are spun.

Then up and up, past bluffs that shun

The rashest chamois; where eagles sun

Great wings and brood; where the mists are spun.

And safe at last stand Kaiser and churlOn the mountain path where the mosses curl—And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.

And safe at last stand Kaiser and churl

On the mountain path where the mosses curl—

And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.

How long had I sat there and had not beheldThe gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...The heaven was starless, the forest was deep,And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.And late 'mid the trees had I lingered untilNo thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.And haunted of thoughts for an hour I satOn a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear,Like terrible waters, a gathering fearCame stealing upon me with all the distressOf loss and of yearning and powerlessness:Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrestThat, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew,Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drewMy soul to abysses of nothingness whereAll light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:Where truth, that religion had set upon high,The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:And dreams of the beauty ambition had fedLike leaves of the autumn fell withered and dead.And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom,And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn,An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!"All effort is vain; and the planet called FaithSinks down; and no power is real but death."O light me a torch in the deepening darkSo my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"—And then in the darkness the answer!—It cameFrom Earth, not from Heaven—a glimmering flame,Behold; at my feet! In the shadow it shoneMysteriously lovely and dimly alone:An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower;Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:As goldenly green as the phosphorous starA fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:An element essence of moonlight and dawnThat, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.And hushed was my soul with the lesson of lightThat God had revealed to me there in the night:Though mortal its structure, material its form,The spiritual message of worm unto worm.

How long had I sat there and had not beheldThe gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...

How long had I sat there and had not beheld

The gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...

The heaven was starless, the forest was deep,And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.

The heaven was starless, the forest was deep,

And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.

And late 'mid the trees had I lingered untilNo thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.

And late 'mid the trees had I lingered until

No thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.

And haunted of thoughts for an hour I satOn a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.

And haunted of thoughts for an hour I sat

On a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.

And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear,Like terrible waters, a gathering fear

And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear,

Like terrible waters, a gathering fear

Came stealing upon me with all the distressOf loss and of yearning and powerlessness:

Came stealing upon me with all the distress

Of loss and of yearning and powerlessness:

Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrestThat, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,

Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrest

That, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,

Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew,Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drew

Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew,

Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drew

My soul to abysses of nothingness whereAll light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:

My soul to abysses of nothingness where

All light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:

Where truth, that religion had set upon high,The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:

Where truth, that religion had set upon high,

The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:

And dreams of the beauty ambition had fedLike leaves of the autumn fell withered and dead.

And dreams of the beauty ambition had fed

Like leaves of the autumn fell withered and dead.

And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom,And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!

And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom,

And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!

"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn,An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!

"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn,

An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!

"All effort is vain; and the planet called FaithSinks down; and no power is real but death.

"All effort is vain; and the planet called Faith

Sinks down; and no power is real but death.

"O light me a torch in the deepening darkSo my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"—

"O light me a torch in the deepening dark

So my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"—

And then in the darkness the answer!—It cameFrom Earth, not from Heaven—a glimmering flame,

And then in the darkness the answer!—It came

From Earth, not from Heaven—a glimmering flame,

Behold; at my feet! In the shadow it shoneMysteriously lovely and dimly alone:

Behold; at my feet! In the shadow it shone

Mysteriously lovely and dimly alone:

An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower;Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:

An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower;

Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:

As goldenly green as the phosphorous starA fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:

As goldenly green as the phosphorous star

A fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:

An element essence of moonlight and dawnThat, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.

An element essence of moonlight and dawn

That, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.

And hushed was my soul with the lesson of lightThat God had revealed to me there in the night:

And hushed was my soul with the lesson of light

That God had revealed to me there in the night:

Though mortal its structure, material its form,The spiritual message of worm unto worm.

Though mortal its structure, material its form,

The spiritual message of worm unto worm.

IBeneath an old beech-treeThey sat together,Fair as a flower was sheOf summer weather.They spoke of life and love,While, through the boughs above,The sunlight, like a dove,Dropped many a feather.IIAnd there the violet,The bluet near it,Made blurs of azure wet—As if some spirit,Or woodland dream, had goneSprinkling the earth with dawn,When only Fay and FaunCould see or hear it.IIIShe with her young, sweet faceAnd eyes gray-beaming,Made of that forest placeA spot for dreaming:A spot for OreadsTo smooth their nut-brown braids,For Dryads of the gladesTo dance in, gleaming.IVSo dim the place, so blest,One had not wonderedHad Dian's moonéd breastThe deep leaves sundered,And there on them a whileThe goddess deigned to smile,While down some forest aisleThe far hunt thundered.VI deem that hour, perchance,Was but a mirrorTo show them Earth's romanceAnd draw them nearer:A mirror where, meseems,All that this Earth-life dreams,All loveliness that gleams,Their souls saw clearer.VIBeneath an old beech-treeThey dreamed of blisses;Fair as a flower was sheThat summer kisses:They spoke of dreams and days,Of love that goes and stays,Of all for which life prays,Ah me! and misses.

Beneath an old beech-treeThey sat together,Fair as a flower was sheOf summer weather.They spoke of life and love,While, through the boughs above,The sunlight, like a dove,Dropped many a feather.

Beneath an old beech-tree

They sat together,

Fair as a flower was she

Of summer weather.

They spoke of life and love,

While, through the boughs above,

The sunlight, like a dove,

Dropped many a feather.

And there the violet,The bluet near it,Made blurs of azure wet—As if some spirit,Or woodland dream, had goneSprinkling the earth with dawn,When only Fay and FaunCould see or hear it.

And there the violet,

The bluet near it,

Made blurs of azure wet—

As if some spirit,

Or woodland dream, had gone

Sprinkling the earth with dawn,

When only Fay and Faun

Could see or hear it.

III

She with her young, sweet faceAnd eyes gray-beaming,Made of that forest placeA spot for dreaming:A spot for OreadsTo smooth their nut-brown braids,For Dryads of the gladesTo dance in, gleaming.

She with her young, sweet face

And eyes gray-beaming,

Made of that forest place

A spot for dreaming:

A spot for Oreads

To smooth their nut-brown braids,

For Dryads of the glades

To dance in, gleaming.

So dim the place, so blest,One had not wonderedHad Dian's moonéd breastThe deep leaves sundered,And there on them a whileThe goddess deigned to smile,While down some forest aisleThe far hunt thundered.

So dim the place, so blest,

One had not wondered

Had Dian's moonéd breast

The deep leaves sundered,

And there on them a while

The goddess deigned to smile,

While down some forest aisle

The far hunt thundered.

I deem that hour, perchance,Was but a mirrorTo show them Earth's romanceAnd draw them nearer:A mirror where, meseems,All that this Earth-life dreams,All loveliness that gleams,Their souls saw clearer.

I deem that hour, perchance,

Was but a mirror

To show them Earth's romance

And draw them nearer:

A mirror where, meseems,

All that this Earth-life dreams,

All loveliness that gleams,

Their souls saw clearer.

Beneath an old beech-treeThey dreamed of blisses;Fair as a flower was sheThat summer kisses:They spoke of dreams and days,Of love that goes and stays,Of all for which life prays,Ah me! and misses.

Beneath an old beech-tree

They dreamed of blisses;

Fair as a flower was she

That summer kisses:

They spoke of dreams and days,

Of love that goes and stays,

Of all for which life prays,

Ah me! and misses.

He told a story to her,A story old yet new—And was it of the Faery FolkThat dance along the dew?The night was hung with silenceAs a room is hung with cloth,And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,Swooned dim the down-white moth.Along the east a shimmer,A tenuous breath of flame,From which, as from a bath of light,Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.And pendent in the purpleOf heaven, like fireflies,Bubbles of gold the great stars blewFrom windows of the skies.He told a story to her,A story full of dreams—And was it of the elfin thingsThat haunt the thin moonbeams?Upon the hill a thorn-tree,Crookéd and gnarled and gray,Against the moon seemed some crutched hagDragging a child away.And in the vale a runnel,That dripped from shelf to shelf,Seemed in the night, a woodland witchWho muttered to herself.Along the land a zephyr,Whose breath was wild perfume,That seemed a sorceress who woveSweet spells of beam and bloom.He told a story to her,A story young yet old—And was it of the mystic thingsMen's eyes shall ne'er behold?They heard the dew drip faintlyFrom out the green-cupped leaf;They heard the petals of the roseUnfolding from their sheaf.They saw the wind light-footingThe waters into sheen;They saw the starlight kiss to sleepThe blossoms on the green.They heard and saw these wonders;These things they saw and heard;And other things within the heartFor which there is no word.He told a story to her,The story men call Love,Whose echoes fill the ages past—And the world ne'er tires of.

He told a story to her,A story old yet new—And was it of the Faery FolkThat dance along the dew?

He told a story to her,

A story old yet new—

And was it of the Faery Folk

That dance along the dew?

The night was hung with silenceAs a room is hung with cloth,And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,Swooned dim the down-white moth.

The night was hung with silence

As a room is hung with cloth,

And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush,

Swooned dim the down-white moth.

Along the east a shimmer,A tenuous breath of flame,From which, as from a bath of light,Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.

Along the east a shimmer,

A tenuous breath of flame,

From which, as from a bath of light,

Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.

And pendent in the purpleOf heaven, like fireflies,Bubbles of gold the great stars blewFrom windows of the skies.

And pendent in the purple

Of heaven, like fireflies,

Bubbles of gold the great stars blew

From windows of the skies.

He told a story to her,A story full of dreams—And was it of the elfin thingsThat haunt the thin moonbeams?

He told a story to her,

A story full of dreams—

And was it of the elfin things

That haunt the thin moonbeams?

Upon the hill a thorn-tree,Crookéd and gnarled and gray,Against the moon seemed some crutched hagDragging a child away.

Upon the hill a thorn-tree,

Crookéd and gnarled and gray,

Against the moon seemed some crutched hag

Dragging a child away.

And in the vale a runnel,That dripped from shelf to shelf,Seemed in the night, a woodland witchWho muttered to herself.

And in the vale a runnel,

That dripped from shelf to shelf,

Seemed in the night, a woodland witch

Who muttered to herself.

Along the land a zephyr,Whose breath was wild perfume,That seemed a sorceress who woveSweet spells of beam and bloom.

Along the land a zephyr,

Whose breath was wild perfume,

That seemed a sorceress who wove

Sweet spells of beam and bloom.

He told a story to her,A story young yet old—And was it of the mystic thingsMen's eyes shall ne'er behold?

He told a story to her,

A story young yet old—

And was it of the mystic things

Men's eyes shall ne'er behold?

They heard the dew drip faintlyFrom out the green-cupped leaf;They heard the petals of the roseUnfolding from their sheaf.

They heard the dew drip faintly

From out the green-cupped leaf;

They heard the petals of the rose

Unfolding from their sheaf.

They saw the wind light-footingThe waters into sheen;They saw the starlight kiss to sleepThe blossoms on the green.

They saw the wind light-footing

The waters into sheen;

They saw the starlight kiss to sleep

The blossoms on the green.

They heard and saw these wonders;These things they saw and heard;And other things within the heartFor which there is no word.

They heard and saw these wonders;

These things they saw and heard;

And other things within the heart

For which there is no word.

He told a story to her,The story men call Love,Whose echoes fill the ages past—And the world ne'er tires of.

He told a story to her,

The story men call Love,

Whose echoes fill the ages past—

And the world ne'er tires of.

IWhere hast thou folded thy pinions,Spirit of Dreams?Hidden elusive garmentsWoven of gleams?In what divine dominions,Brighter than day,Far from the world's dark torments,Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—When shall my yearnings reach theeAgain?Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!Not in vain! not in vain!III have longed for thee as a loverFor her, the one;As a brother for a sisterLong dead and gone.I have called thee over and overNames sweet to hear;With words than music trister,And thrice as dear.How long must my sad heart woo thee,Yet fail?How long must my soul pursue thee,Nor avail, nor avail?IIIAll night hath thy loving mother,Beautiful Sleep,Lying beside me, listenedAnd heard me weep.But ever thou soughtest anotherWho sought thee not;For him thy soft smile glistened—I was forgot.When shall my soul behold theeAs before?When shall my heart enfold thee?—Nevermore? nevermore?

Where hast thou folded thy pinions,Spirit of Dreams?Hidden elusive garmentsWoven of gleams?In what divine dominions,Brighter than day,Far from the world's dark torments,Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—When shall my yearnings reach theeAgain?Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!Not in vain! not in vain!

Where hast thou folded thy pinions,

Spirit of Dreams?

Hidden elusive garments

Woven of gleams?

In what divine dominions,

Brighter than day,

Far from the world's dark torments,

Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—

When shall my yearnings reach thee

Again?

Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!

Not in vain! not in vain!

I have longed for thee as a loverFor her, the one;As a brother for a sisterLong dead and gone.I have called thee over and overNames sweet to hear;With words than music trister,And thrice as dear.How long must my sad heart woo thee,Yet fail?How long must my soul pursue thee,Nor avail, nor avail?

I have longed for thee as a lover

For her, the one;

As a brother for a sister

Long dead and gone.

I have called thee over and over

Names sweet to hear;

With words than music trister,

And thrice as dear.

How long must my sad heart woo thee,

Yet fail?

How long must my soul pursue thee,

Nor avail, nor avail?

III

All night hath thy loving mother,Beautiful Sleep,Lying beside me, listenedAnd heard me weep.But ever thou soughtest anotherWho sought thee not;For him thy soft smile glistened—I was forgot.When shall my soul behold theeAs before?When shall my heart enfold thee?—Nevermore? nevermore?

All night hath thy loving mother,

Beautiful Sleep,

Lying beside me, listened

And heard me weep.

But ever thou soughtest another

Who sought thee not;

For him thy soft smile glistened—

I was forgot.

When shall my soul behold thee

As before?

When shall my heart enfold thee?—

Nevermore? nevermore?

Universes are the pagesOf that book whose words are ages;Of that book which destinyOpens in eternity.There each syllable expressesSilence; there each thought a guess is;In whose rhetoric's cosmic runesRoll the worlds and swarming moons.There the systems, we call solar,Equatorial and polar,Write their lines of rushing lightOn the awful leaves of night.There the comets, vast and streaming,Punctuate the heavens' gleamingScroll; and suns, gigantic, shine,Periods to each starry line.There, initials huge, the LionLooms and measureless Orion;And, as 'neath a chapter done,Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.Constellated, hieroglyphic,Numbering each page terrific,Fiery on the nebular black,Flames the hurling zodiac.In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom poured and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read:—He has read how good and evil,—In creation's wild upheaval,—Warred; while God wrought terribleAt foundations red of Hell.He has read of man and woman;Laws and gods, both beast and human;Thrones of hate and creeds of lust,Vanished now and turned to dust.Arts and manners that have crumbled;Cities buried; empires tumbled:Time but breathed on them its breath;Earth is builded of their death.These but lived their little hour,Filled with pride and pomp and power;What availed it all at last?We shall pass as they have passed.Still the human heart will dream onLove, part angel and part demon;Yet, I question, what securesOur belief that aught endures?In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom poured and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read.

Universes are the pagesOf that book whose words are ages;Of that book which destinyOpens in eternity.

Universes are the pages

Of that book whose words are ages;

Of that book which destiny

Opens in eternity.

There each syllable expressesSilence; there each thought a guess is;In whose rhetoric's cosmic runesRoll the worlds and swarming moons.

There each syllable expresses

Silence; there each thought a guess is;

In whose rhetoric's cosmic runes

Roll the worlds and swarming moons.

There the systems, we call solar,Equatorial and polar,Write their lines of rushing lightOn the awful leaves of night.

There the systems, we call solar,

Equatorial and polar,

Write their lines of rushing light

On the awful leaves of night.

There the comets, vast and streaming,Punctuate the heavens' gleamingScroll; and suns, gigantic, shine,Periods to each starry line.

There the comets, vast and streaming,

Punctuate the heavens' gleaming

Scroll; and suns, gigantic, shine,

Periods to each starry line.

There, initials huge, the LionLooms and measureless Orion;And, as 'neath a chapter done,Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.

There, initials huge, the Lion

Looms and measureless Orion;

And, as 'neath a chapter done,

Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.

Constellated, hieroglyphic,Numbering each page terrific,Fiery on the nebular black,Flames the hurling zodiac.

Constellated, hieroglyphic,

Numbering each page terrific,

Fiery on the nebular black,

Flames the hurling zodiac.

In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom poured and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read:—

In that book, o'er which Chaldean

Wisdom poured and many an eon

Of philosophy long dead,

This is all that man has read:—

He has read how good and evil,—In creation's wild upheaval,—Warred; while God wrought terribleAt foundations red of Hell.

He has read how good and evil,—

In creation's wild upheaval,—

Warred; while God wrought terrible

At foundations red of Hell.

He has read of man and woman;Laws and gods, both beast and human;Thrones of hate and creeds of lust,Vanished now and turned to dust.

He has read of man and woman;

Laws and gods, both beast and human;

Thrones of hate and creeds of lust,

Vanished now and turned to dust.

Arts and manners that have crumbled;Cities buried; empires tumbled:Time but breathed on them its breath;Earth is builded of their death.

Arts and manners that have crumbled;

Cities buried; empires tumbled:

Time but breathed on them its breath;

Earth is builded of their death.

These but lived their little hour,Filled with pride and pomp and power;What availed it all at last?We shall pass as they have passed.

These but lived their little hour,

Filled with pride and pomp and power;

What availed it all at last?

We shall pass as they have passed.

Still the human heart will dream onLove, part angel and part demon;Yet, I question, what securesOur belief that aught endures?

Still the human heart will dream on

Love, part angel and part demon;

Yet, I question, what secures

Our belief that aught endures?

In that book, o'er which ChaldeanWisdom poured and many an eonOf philosophy long dead,This is all that man has read.

In that book, o'er which Chaldean

Wisdom poured and many an eon

Of philosophy long dead,

This is all that man has read.

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