THE SEA-KING

IWhen the lily nods in slumber,And the roses are all sleeping;When the night hangs deep and umber,And the stars their watch are keeping:When the clematis unclosesLike a hand of snowy fire;And the golden-lipped primroses,To the tiger-moths' desire,Each a mouth of musk unpuckersâ€”Silken pouts of scented sweetness,Which they sip with honey-suckers:â€”Shod with hush and winged with fleetness,You may see the Little People,Round and round the drowsy steepleOf a belfried hollyhock,â€”Clad in phlox and four-o'-clock,Gay of gown and pantaloon,â€”Dancing by the glimmering moon,Till the cock, the long-necked cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.IIWhen the cobweb is a cradleFor the dreaming dew to sleep in;And each blossom is a ladleThat the perfumed rain lies deep in:When the flaming fireflies scribbleDarkness as with lines flame-tragic,And the night seems some dim sibylSpeaking gold, or wording magicSilent-syllabled and golden:Capped with snapdragon and hoodedWith the sweet-pea, vague-beholden,You may see the Little PeopleUnderneath the sleepy steepleOf a towering mullein stock,Trip it over moss and rockTo the owlet's elvish tune,And the tree-toad's gnome-bassoon;Till the cock, the barnyard cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.IIIWhen the wind upon the waterSeems a boat of ray and ripple,That some fairy moonbeam-daughterSteers, with sails that drift and dripple;When the sound of grig and cricket,Ever singing, ever humming,Seems a goblin in the thicketOn his elfin viol strumming;When the toadstool, coned and milky,Heaves a roof for snails to clamber,Thistledown- and milkweed-silky,With loose locks of jade and amber,You may see the Little People,Underneath the pixy steepleOf a domÃ©d mushroom, flock,Quaint in wildflower vest and frock,Whirling by the waning moonTo the whippoorwill's weird tune,Till the cock, the far-off cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.

When the lily nods in slumber,And the roses are all sleeping;When the night hangs deep and umber,And the stars their watch are keeping:When the clematis unclosesLike a hand of snowy fire;And the golden-lipped primroses,To the tiger-moths' desire,Each a mouth of musk unpuckersâ€”Silken pouts of scented sweetness,Which they sip with honey-suckers:â€”Shod with hush and winged with fleetness,You may see the Little People,Round and round the drowsy steepleOf a belfried hollyhock,â€”Clad in phlox and four-o'-clock,Gay of gown and pantaloon,â€”Dancing by the glimmering moon,Till the cock, the long-necked cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.

When the lily nods in slumber,

And the roses are all sleeping;

When the night hangs deep and umber,

And the stars their watch are keeping:

When the clematis uncloses

Like a hand of snowy fire;

And the golden-lipped primroses,

To the tiger-moths' desire,

Each a mouth of musk unpuckersâ€”

Silken pouts of scented sweetness,

Which they sip with honey-suckers:â€”

Shod with hush and winged with fleetness,

You may see the Little People,

Round and round the drowsy steeple

Of a belfried hollyhock,â€”

Clad in phlox and four-o'-clock,

Gay of gown and pantaloon,â€”

Dancing by the glimmering moon,

Till the cock, the long-necked cock,

Crows them they must vanish soon.

When the cobweb is a cradleFor the dreaming dew to sleep in;And each blossom is a ladleThat the perfumed rain lies deep in:When the flaming fireflies scribbleDarkness as with lines flame-tragic,And the night seems some dim sibylSpeaking gold, or wording magicSilent-syllabled and golden:Capped with snapdragon and hoodedWith the sweet-pea, vague-beholden,You may see the Little PeopleUnderneath the sleepy steepleOf a towering mullein stock,Trip it over moss and rockTo the owlet's elvish tune,And the tree-toad's gnome-bassoon;Till the cock, the barnyard cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.

When the cobweb is a cradle

For the dreaming dew to sleep in;

And each blossom is a ladle

That the perfumed rain lies deep in:

When the flaming fireflies scribble

Darkness as with lines flame-tragic,

And the night seems some dim sibyl

Speaking gold, or wording magic

Silent-syllabled and golden:

Capped with snapdragon and hooded

With the sweet-pea, vague-beholden,

You may see the Little People

Underneath the sleepy steeple

Of a towering mullein stock,

Trip it over moss and rock

To the owlet's elvish tune,

And the tree-toad's gnome-bassoon;

Till the cock, the barnyard cock,

Crows them they must vanish soon.

III

When the wind upon the waterSeems a boat of ray and ripple,That some fairy moonbeam-daughterSteers, with sails that drift and dripple;When the sound of grig and cricket,Ever singing, ever humming,Seems a goblin in the thicketOn his elfin viol strumming;When the toadstool, coned and milky,Heaves a roof for snails to clamber,Thistledown- and milkweed-silky,With loose locks of jade and amber,You may see the Little People,Underneath the pixy steepleOf a domÃ©d mushroom, flock,Quaint in wildflower vest and frock,Whirling by the waning moonTo the whippoorwill's weird tune,Till the cock, the far-off cock,Crows them they must vanish soon.

When the wind upon the water

Seems a boat of ray and ripple,

That some fairy moonbeam-daughter

Steers, with sails that drift and dripple;

When the sound of grig and cricket,

Ever singing, ever humming,

Seems a goblin in the thicket

On his elfin viol strumming;

When the toadstool, coned and milky,

Heaves a roof for snails to clamber,

Thistledown- and milkweed-silky,

With loose locks of jade and amber,

You may see the Little People,

Underneath the pixy steeple

Of a domÃ©d mushroom, flock,

Quaint in wildflower vest and frock,

Whirling by the waning moon

To the whippoorwill's weird tune,

Till the cock, the far-off cock,

Crows them they must vanish soon.

In green sea-caverns dim,Deep down,Foam-bearded,â€”gray and grimBeneath his crown,â€”He sits where sea-things swimAnd dead men frown.In green sea-caverns dimDeep down.Around him mermaids sing,Foam-clad,And comb long locks and cling,And sing so sadTheir song's wild murmuringDrives mortals mad.Around him mermaids sing,Foam-clad.There vast the sea-snakes lairAnd yawn;Great bulks cloud by; and thereHuge shells and spawn,Weird weeds, fantastic fair,Drift scarlet wan.There vast the sea-snakes lairAnd yawn.Of wrecks of ships and hullsAnd bones,Sunk gold the water dulls,And precious stones,Anchors, and deadmen's skulls,He builds gaunt thrones.Of wrecks of ships and hullsAnd bones.Men's tears are dear to him,Deep down.Set in the foamy rimOf his pale crown,Their pearlÃ©d sorrows swimAbove his frown.Men's tears are dear to him,Deep down.For him no tempests sweepAnd severThe league-long waves that leap;The sun shines never:In caverns vast and deepHe sits forever.For him no tempests sweep,Never, ah, never.

In green sea-caverns dim,Deep down,Foam-bearded,â€”gray and grimBeneath his crown,â€”He sits where sea-things swimAnd dead men frown.In green sea-caverns dimDeep down.

In green sea-caverns dim,

Deep down,

Foam-bearded,â€”gray and grim

Beneath his crown,â€”

He sits where sea-things swim

And dead men frown.

In green sea-caverns dim

Deep down.

Around him mermaids sing,Foam-clad,And comb long locks and cling,And sing so sadTheir song's wild murmuringDrives mortals mad.Around him mermaids sing,Foam-clad.

Around him mermaids sing,

Foam-clad,

And comb long locks and cling,

And sing so sad

Their song's wild murmuring

Drives mortals mad.

Around him mermaids sing,

Foam-clad.

There vast the sea-snakes lairAnd yawn;Great bulks cloud by; and thereHuge shells and spawn,Weird weeds, fantastic fair,Drift scarlet wan.There vast the sea-snakes lairAnd yawn.

There vast the sea-snakes lair

And yawn;

Great bulks cloud by; and there

Huge shells and spawn,

Weird weeds, fantastic fair,

Drift scarlet wan.

There vast the sea-snakes lair

And yawn.

Of wrecks of ships and hullsAnd bones,Sunk gold the water dulls,And precious stones,Anchors, and deadmen's skulls,He builds gaunt thrones.Of wrecks of ships and hullsAnd bones.

Of wrecks of ships and hulls

And bones,

Sunk gold the water dulls,

And precious stones,

Anchors, and deadmen's skulls,

He builds gaunt thrones.

Of wrecks of ships and hulls

And bones.

Men's tears are dear to him,Deep down.Set in the foamy rimOf his pale crown,Their pearlÃ©d sorrows swimAbove his frown.Men's tears are dear to him,Deep down.

Men's tears are dear to him,

Deep down.

Set in the foamy rim

Of his pale crown,

Their pearlÃ©d sorrows swim

Above his frown.

Men's tears are dear to him,

Deep down.

For him no tempests sweepAnd severThe league-long waves that leap;The sun shines never:In caverns vast and deepHe sits forever.For him no tempests sweep,Never, ah, never.

For him no tempests sweep

And sever

The league-long waves that leap;

The sun shines never:

In caverns vast and deep

He sits forever.

For him no tempests sweep,

Never, ah, never.

II saw one night a Nereid whiteArise from her coral caves:Her sea-green curls were pale with pearls,And her limbs were veiled with the waves.Through the moonlit foam I saw her comeUp the billow-haunted shoreâ€”And faint and sweet I heard her feet,Foam-like, through the surf's long roar;While ever the wind and the rolling wavesKept time to her song of ocean caves,That she sang to her harp of mist and moon,Of moonbeam shell: this ocean tune:â€”II"Come follow, come follow, to caverns hollow,That sound with the sighing sea!Come follow me o'er the waters hoar!â€”Come away, come away with me!Come follow, oh, follow, to grottoes hollow,And caves that are ocean-whist,Where the sea-weeds twine and the star-fish shine,And the rosy corals twist."Come follow me home on the wandering foam,That rolls my world above!My bosom shall bear thee safely whereThe Sea-nymphs dream of love.They will lie at thy feet and thy heart shall beatTo the music of their sighs;They will lean to thy face and, like stars, thou shalt traceTheir radiant, love-lit eyes."Come away, come away! where, under the spray,The haliÃ¶tis glows,The nautilus gleams and the sponge-grove dreams,And the crimson dulse like sunset streams,And the coral-forest grows.Come away to my caves, my emerald caves,From the moon and the sun deep hid!Forget the world, down under the waves,â€”The world of man that sighs and slaves,â€”Forget the world, there under the waves,In the arms of a Nereid!"

I saw one night a Nereid whiteArise from her coral caves:Her sea-green curls were pale with pearls,And her limbs were veiled with the waves.Through the moonlit foam I saw her comeUp the billow-haunted shoreâ€”And faint and sweet I heard her feet,Foam-like, through the surf's long roar;While ever the wind and the rolling wavesKept time to her song of ocean caves,That she sang to her harp of mist and moon,Of moonbeam shell: this ocean tune:â€”

I saw one night a Nereid white

Arise from her coral caves:

Her sea-green curls were pale with pearls,

And her limbs were veiled with the waves.

Through the moonlit foam I saw her come

Up the billow-haunted shoreâ€”

And faint and sweet I heard her feet,

Foam-like, through the surf's long roar;

While ever the wind and the rolling waves

Kept time to her song of ocean caves,

That she sang to her harp of mist and moon,

Of moonbeam shell: this ocean tune:â€”

"Come follow, come follow, to caverns hollow,That sound with the sighing sea!Come follow me o'er the waters hoar!â€”Come away, come away with me!Come follow, oh, follow, to grottoes hollow,And caves that are ocean-whist,Where the sea-weeds twine and the star-fish shine,And the rosy corals twist.

"Come follow, come follow, to caverns hollow,

That sound with the sighing sea!

Come follow me o'er the waters hoar!â€”

Come away, come away with me!

Come follow, oh, follow, to grottoes hollow,

And caves that are ocean-whist,

Where the sea-weeds twine and the star-fish shine,

And the rosy corals twist.

"Come follow me home on the wandering foam,That rolls my world above!My bosom shall bear thee safely whereThe Sea-nymphs dream of love.They will lie at thy feet and thy heart shall beatTo the music of their sighs;They will lean to thy face and, like stars, thou shalt traceTheir radiant, love-lit eyes.

"Come follow me home on the wandering foam,

That rolls my world above!

My bosom shall bear thee safely where

The Sea-nymphs dream of love.

They will lie at thy feet and thy heart shall beat

To the music of their sighs;

They will lean to thy face and, like stars, thou shalt trace

Their radiant, love-lit eyes.

"Come away, come away! where, under the spray,The haliÃ¶tis glows,The nautilus gleams and the sponge-grove dreams,And the crimson dulse like sunset streams,And the coral-forest grows.Come away to my caves, my emerald caves,From the moon and the sun deep hid!Forget the world, down under the waves,â€”The world of man that sighs and slaves,â€”Forget the world, there under the waves,In the arms of a Nereid!"

"Come away, come away! where, under the spray,

The haliÃ¶tis glows,

The nautilus gleams and the sponge-grove dreams,

And the crimson dulse like sunset streams,

And the coral-forest grows.

Come away to my caves, my emerald caves,

From the moon and the sun deep hid!

Forget the world, down under the waves,â€”

The world of man that sighs and slaves,â€”

Forget the world, there under the waves,

In the arms of a Nereid!"

The moon in the east was glowingWhen I sought the moaning sea;The winds from the sea were blowing,And they brought strange dreams to me.The waves at my feet were breaking;The stars in the sky were wan;And I watched a white mist makingFor the shore and glimmering on.And was it a sound of wailingThat the sea-wind bore to me?Did I hear a footstep trailing?Or was it a wave of the sea?The night hung pale above meUpon her starry throne,And a voice said, "Youth, come love me!For my heart for thee makes moan."And out of the mist came slippingA mermaid, tall and fair;Her limbs with sea-dew dripping,And moonlight in her hair.Her locks, with the salt sea dripping,She wrung with a snowy hand;Her gown hung, thinly clippingHer breasts the sea-wind fanned.Amort from the sea came speedingThis creature samite-clad;And my heart for her was bleeding,But its beating I forbade.On the strand where the sand was rockingShe stood and sang an air;And the winds in her hair kept lockingTheir fingers cool and bare.Soft in her arms did she fold me,And evermore she moaned,While her love and her grief she told me,And the ocean sighed and groaned.But I stilled my heart's wild beating,For I knew her love was dim;Oh, cold, oh, cold was my greeting,Though my love burnt in each limb.To her bosom white she pressed meWith arms of foam and mist;With her arms and her lips caressed me,And smiled in my eyes and kissed.But ever I kept repeating,"A mermaid false is she!"And cold, oh, cold was my greeting,Though the heart beat wild in me.To my ears she laid her sighingSweet mouth, like a rosy shell;Her arms round my neck were lying,And her bosom rose and fell.With her kisses soft did she woo me,But I hushed my heart's wild beat;With her lips and her eyes did she sue me,But met in my own defeat.With the cloud of her sea-dipped tressesShe veiled her beautiful faceâ€”And, oh, how I longed for her kisses,And sighed for her soft embrace!But out in the mist she went wailingWhen dawn besilvered the night,Her robes of samite trailingThe foam-flowers, sad and white.Like a spirit lost went sighingIn the twilight over the sea;And it seemed the night was cryingâ€”Or was it the heart in me?Then she turned to me and, weeping,Faded into the night;And I saw the wild waves leapingUnder the haunted height.I heard a far-off sobbing,A sound of agonyâ€”Oh, was it the ocean throbbing?Or was it the heart in me?But I hushed my heart's wild beating,With "a mermaid false is she!"While ever I kept repeating,"Would she'd return to me!"Oh, heart, so full of yearningFor a loveliness that's gone,A beauty unreturning,Be still! or break with dawn!

The moon in the east was glowingWhen I sought the moaning sea;The winds from the sea were blowing,And they brought strange dreams to me.

The moon in the east was glowing

When I sought the moaning sea;

The winds from the sea were blowing,

And they brought strange dreams to me.

The waves at my feet were breaking;The stars in the sky were wan;And I watched a white mist makingFor the shore and glimmering on.

The waves at my feet were breaking;

The stars in the sky were wan;

And I watched a white mist making

For the shore and glimmering on.

And was it a sound of wailingThat the sea-wind bore to me?Did I hear a footstep trailing?Or was it a wave of the sea?

And was it a sound of wailing

That the sea-wind bore to me?

Did I hear a footstep trailing?

Or was it a wave of the sea?

The night hung pale above meUpon her starry throne,And a voice said, "Youth, come love me!For my heart for thee makes moan."

The night hung pale above me

Upon her starry throne,

And a voice said, "Youth, come love me!

For my heart for thee makes moan."

And out of the mist came slippingA mermaid, tall and fair;Her limbs with sea-dew dripping,And moonlight in her hair.

And out of the mist came slipping

A mermaid, tall and fair;

Her limbs with sea-dew dripping,

And moonlight in her hair.

Her locks, with the salt sea dripping,She wrung with a snowy hand;Her gown hung, thinly clippingHer breasts the sea-wind fanned.

Her locks, with the salt sea dripping,

She wrung with a snowy hand;

Her gown hung, thinly clipping

Her breasts the sea-wind fanned.

Amort from the sea came speedingThis creature samite-clad;And my heart for her was bleeding,But its beating I forbade.

Amort from the sea came speeding

This creature samite-clad;

And my heart for her was bleeding,

But its beating I forbade.

On the strand where the sand was rockingShe stood and sang an air;And the winds in her hair kept lockingTheir fingers cool and bare.

On the strand where the sand was rocking

She stood and sang an air;

And the winds in her hair kept locking

Their fingers cool and bare.

Soft in her arms did she fold me,And evermore she moaned,While her love and her grief she told me,And the ocean sighed and groaned.

Soft in her arms did she fold me,

And evermore she moaned,

While her love and her grief she told me,

And the ocean sighed and groaned.

But I stilled my heart's wild beating,For I knew her love was dim;Oh, cold, oh, cold was my greeting,Though my love burnt in each limb.

But I stilled my heart's wild beating,

For I knew her love was dim;

Oh, cold, oh, cold was my greeting,

Though my love burnt in each limb.

To her bosom white she pressed meWith arms of foam and mist;With her arms and her lips caressed me,And smiled in my eyes and kissed.

To her bosom white she pressed me

With arms of foam and mist;

With her arms and her lips caressed me,

And smiled in my eyes and kissed.

But ever I kept repeating,"A mermaid false is she!"And cold, oh, cold was my greeting,Though the heart beat wild in me.

But ever I kept repeating,

"A mermaid false is she!"

And cold, oh, cold was my greeting,

Though the heart beat wild in me.

To my ears she laid her sighingSweet mouth, like a rosy shell;Her arms round my neck were lying,And her bosom rose and fell.

To my ears she laid her sighing

Sweet mouth, like a rosy shell;

Her arms round my neck were lying,

And her bosom rose and fell.

With her kisses soft did she woo me,But I hushed my heart's wild beat;With her lips and her eyes did she sue me,But met in my own defeat.

With her kisses soft did she woo me,

But I hushed my heart's wild beat;

With her lips and her eyes did she sue me,

But met in my own defeat.

With the cloud of her sea-dipped tressesShe veiled her beautiful faceâ€”And, oh, how I longed for her kisses,And sighed for her soft embrace!

With the cloud of her sea-dipped tresses

She veiled her beautiful faceâ€”

And, oh, how I longed for her kisses,

And sighed for her soft embrace!

But out in the mist she went wailingWhen dawn besilvered the night,Her robes of samite trailingThe foam-flowers, sad and white.

But out in the mist she went wailing

When dawn besilvered the night,

Her robes of samite trailing

The foam-flowers, sad and white.

Like a spirit lost went sighingIn the twilight over the sea;And it seemed the night was cryingâ€”Or was it the heart in me?

Like a spirit lost went sighing

In the twilight over the sea;

And it seemed the night was cryingâ€”

Or was it the heart in me?

Then she turned to me and, weeping,Faded into the night;And I saw the wild waves leapingUnder the haunted height.

Then she turned to me and, weeping,

Faded into the night;

And I saw the wild waves leaping

Under the haunted height.

I heard a far-off sobbing,A sound of agonyâ€”Oh, was it the ocean throbbing?Or was it the heart in me?

I heard a far-off sobbing,

A sound of agonyâ€”

Oh, was it the ocean throbbing?

Or was it the heart in me?

But I hushed my heart's wild beating,With "a mermaid false is she!"While ever I kept repeating,"Would she'd return to me!"

But I hushed my heart's wild beating,

With "a mermaid false is she!"

While ever I kept repeating,

"Would she'd return to me!"

Oh, heart, so full of yearningFor a loveliness that's gone,A beauty unreturning,Be still! or break with dawn!

Oh, heart, so full of yearning

For a loveliness that's gone,

A beauty unreturning,

Be still! or break with dawn!

ITo-night, perhaps, after the rain is done,Led by a moonbeam or the flickering torchThe firefly flares, amid the loneliness,The hereditary loneliness of the trees,I, too, may see,â€”as sees the star that peepsThrough interlacing boughs, the toadstools heaveTheir white roofs through the ferns, like goblin huts,An elfin town; and, squatting on their tops,Punch-bellied things, peak-kneed, their knees up-drawnTo perpendicular eyes of glow-worm flame,And arms akimbo i' the light o' the moon,Watching the dew-drops tag the toadstools' rims,Or from the mushroom roll the orbÃ©d rain:Or, where the tall weed drips and spunkwood smellsMake musk the underwoods, slim woodland imps,â€”Snail-eyed, frog-footed,â€”oust the sleeping beesFrom rocking cradles of the wild flowers' bellsBelfrying, with foxglove-purple, a moonbeam space.IIOn the road in the April wood,Under the oaks I stopped and stood,Watching the mole that stealthily heavedThe soft loose clay of its barrow:The oaks above were auburn-leaved;And near me bloomed the yarrow;When down from a leaf a gray snail fell,Its long stilt-eyes thrust out of its shell:And I thought, "This color is worn of the fays,Whose fashion runs to dimmish grays:A snail-brown tunic each elfin eunuchWears in the harem the Elf King keeps:And a snail-gray gown each fairy clownDons when the elf dance whirls and leapsIn the light of the moon on the upland down.A snail-shell house for his ouphen spouseEach elfin builds by the snail-white moon,Where his fairykin love he boards and beds,Under the dandelion's wisp-white heads,Where ever he pipes his cricket tune."IIIThe sphinx-moth, clothed in downy hues,In woolly whites and fawns and blues,Goes fluttering through the evening dews.Above the nicotiana's blooms'Narcotic horns it waves its plumes,Made drowsy with the drugged perfumes.It seems some Fairy Queen who goes'Mid trumpets lifted in long rowsOf white whereon the Elfworld blows.Attendant and triumphant strainsOf fragrance, greeting her who reigns,Who takes the air in fairy lanesOf flowers, that the moonlight stains.

To-night, perhaps, after the rain is done,Led by a moonbeam or the flickering torchThe firefly flares, amid the loneliness,The hereditary loneliness of the trees,I, too, may see,â€”as sees the star that peepsThrough interlacing boughs, the toadstools heaveTheir white roofs through the ferns, like goblin huts,An elfin town; and, squatting on their tops,Punch-bellied things, peak-kneed, their knees up-drawnTo perpendicular eyes of glow-worm flame,And arms akimbo i' the light o' the moon,Watching the dew-drops tag the toadstools' rims,Or from the mushroom roll the orbÃ©d rain:Or, where the tall weed drips and spunkwood smellsMake musk the underwoods, slim woodland imps,â€”Snail-eyed, frog-footed,â€”oust the sleeping beesFrom rocking cradles of the wild flowers' bellsBelfrying, with foxglove-purple, a moonbeam space.

To-night, perhaps, after the rain is done,

Led by a moonbeam or the flickering torch

The firefly flares, amid the loneliness,

The hereditary loneliness of the trees,

I, too, may see,â€”as sees the star that peeps

Through interlacing boughs, the toadstools heave

Their white roofs through the ferns, like goblin huts,

An elfin town; and, squatting on their tops,

Punch-bellied things, peak-kneed, their knees up-drawn

To perpendicular eyes of glow-worm flame,

And arms akimbo i' the light o' the moon,

Watching the dew-drops tag the toadstools' rims,

Or from the mushroom roll the orbÃ©d rain:

Or, where the tall weed drips and spunkwood smells

Make musk the underwoods, slim woodland imps,â€”

Snail-eyed, frog-footed,â€”oust the sleeping bees

From rocking cradles of the wild flowers' bells

Belfrying, with foxglove-purple, a moonbeam space.

On the road in the April wood,Under the oaks I stopped and stood,Watching the mole that stealthily heavedThe soft loose clay of its barrow:The oaks above were auburn-leaved;And near me bloomed the yarrow;When down from a leaf a gray snail fell,Its long stilt-eyes thrust out of its shell:And I thought, "This color is worn of the fays,Whose fashion runs to dimmish grays:A snail-brown tunic each elfin eunuchWears in the harem the Elf King keeps:And a snail-gray gown each fairy clownDons when the elf dance whirls and leapsIn the light of the moon on the upland down.A snail-shell house for his ouphen spouseEach elfin builds by the snail-white moon,Where his fairykin love he boards and beds,Under the dandelion's wisp-white heads,Where ever he pipes his cricket tune."

On the road in the April wood,

Under the oaks I stopped and stood,

Watching the mole that stealthily heaved

The soft loose clay of its barrow:

The oaks above were auburn-leaved;

And near me bloomed the yarrow;

When down from a leaf a gray snail fell,

Its long stilt-eyes thrust out of its shell:

And I thought, "This color is worn of the fays,

Whose fashion runs to dimmish grays:

A snail-brown tunic each elfin eunuch

Wears in the harem the Elf King keeps:

And a snail-gray gown each fairy clown

Dons when the elf dance whirls and leaps

In the light of the moon on the upland down.

A snail-shell house for his ouphen spouse

Each elfin builds by the snail-white moon,

Where his fairykin love he boards and beds,

Under the dandelion's wisp-white heads,

Where ever he pipes his cricket tune."

III

The sphinx-moth, clothed in downy hues,In woolly whites and fawns and blues,Goes fluttering through the evening dews.

The sphinx-moth, clothed in downy hues,

In woolly whites and fawns and blues,

Goes fluttering through the evening dews.

Above the nicotiana's blooms'Narcotic horns it waves its plumes,Made drowsy with the drugged perfumes.

Above the nicotiana's blooms'

Narcotic horns it waves its plumes,

Made drowsy with the drugged perfumes.

It seems some Fairy Queen who goes'Mid trumpets lifted in long rowsOf white whereon the Elfworld blows.

It seems some Fairy Queen who goes

'Mid trumpets lifted in long rows

Of white whereon the Elfworld blows.

Attendant and triumphant strainsOf fragrance, greeting her who reigns,Who takes the air in fairy lanesOf flowers, that the moonlight stains.

Attendant and triumphant strains

Of fragrance, greeting her who reigns,

Who takes the air in fairy lanes

Of flowers, that the moonlight stains.

ITo-night he sees their star bead, dewy bright,Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,Low in the westâ€”a placid purple litAt its far edge with warm auroral light:Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;And there in shadow, like gold music writOf dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fireflies flitNow up, now down the balmy bars of night.How different from that eve a year ago!Which was a stormy flower in the hairOf dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked blurredInto night's sibyl face, and saw the woeOf parting here, and imaged a despair,As now a hope caught from a homing word.IIShe came unto himâ€”as the springtime doesUnto the land where all lies dead and cold,Until her rosary of days is toldAnd beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.â€”Nature divined her coming; yea, the duskSeemed thinking of that happiness: behold,No cloud it had to blot its marigoldMoonâ€”great and goldenâ€”o'er the slopes of musk;Whereon earth's voice made music; tree and streamLilting the same low lullaby again,To coax the wind, who romped among the hillsAll dayâ€”a tired childâ€”to sleep and dream:When through the moonlight of the locust-laneShe came, as spring comes through her daffodils.IIIWhite as a lily molded of Earth's milkThat eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:Bright as a Naiad's limbs, from shine to shadeThe runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.And when the western sky seemed some weird land,And night a witch's spell, at whose commandOne sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deepThe warm rose opened, for the moth to sleep;Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.IVThere where they part the porch's steps are strewnWith wind-dropped petals of the purple vine;Athwart the porch the shadow of a pineCleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm runeHeaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;And now a meteor draws a lilac lineAcross the welkin, as if God would signThe perfect poem of this night of June.The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grassLike crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,The dewdrop trembles in the peony,As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.VIn after years shall she stand here again,In heart regretful? and with lonely sighsThink on that night of love, and realizeWhose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmiseBid darker phantoms of remorse ariseTrailing the raiment of a dead disdain?Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearnWith looks clairvoyant, seeing how each isA different form with eyes and lips that burnInto her heart with love's last look and kiss?â€”And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turnTo her a face which evermore is his?VIIn after years shall he remember howDawn had no breeze sweet as her murmured name?And day no sunlight that availed the sameAs her bright smile or beauty of her brow?Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and graysHer soul's allurement, that was free from blame,â€”Nor dusk's advances, soft with starry flame,More young bewitchment than her own sweet ways.â€”Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,And dew and darkness, qualifies the wholeDim world with glamour, shall the past with dreamsâ€”That were the love-theme of their livesâ€”illumeThe present with remembered hours, with gleams,Long lost to him, that bring them soul to soul?VIINo! not for her and him that partâ€”the Might-Have-Been's sad consolation! where had bent,Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.The otherwise of fate for them, when whiteThe lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,Spring comes with beauty for her testament,Singing the praises of the day and night.When orchards blossom and the distant hillIs pale with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,The moon shall see him where a watch he keepsBy her young form that lieth white and still,With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,While by her side he bows himself and weeps.VIIIWhat pain for him to see the blooms appearOf haw and dogwood in the spring again;The primrose dragging with its weight of rain,And hill-sloped orchards swarming far and near.To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,â€”How vain to him!â€”since she no more is here.What though the woodland bourgeon, water flow,Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!The cat-bird and the oriole arouseDay with the impulsive music of their love!Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!IXHow bless'd is he who, gazing in the tomb,Can yet behold beneath the investing maskOf mockery,â€”whose horror seems to askSphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,â€”Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,Weaving the web of promise on her loom!Thrice bless'd! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaimHow all is Death's and Life Death's other name,Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!But that is left which life indeed assuresâ€”Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"

To-night he sees their star bead, dewy bright,Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,Low in the westâ€”a placid purple litAt its far edge with warm auroral light:Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;And there in shadow, like gold music writOf dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fireflies flitNow up, now down the balmy bars of night.How different from that eve a year ago!Which was a stormy flower in the hairOf dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked blurredInto night's sibyl face, and saw the woeOf parting here, and imaged a despair,As now a hope caught from a homing word.

To-night he sees their star bead, dewy bright,

Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,

Low in the westâ€”a placid purple lit

At its far edge with warm auroral light:

Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;

And there in shadow, like gold music writ

Of dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fireflies flit

Now up, now down the balmy bars of night.

How different from that eve a year ago!

Which was a stormy flower in the hair

Of dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked blurred

Into night's sibyl face, and saw the woe

Of parting here, and imaged a despair,

As now a hope caught from a homing word.

She came unto himâ€”as the springtime doesUnto the land where all lies dead and cold,Until her rosary of days is toldAnd beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.â€”Nature divined her coming; yea, the duskSeemed thinking of that happiness: behold,No cloud it had to blot its marigoldMoonâ€”great and goldenâ€”o'er the slopes of musk;Whereon earth's voice made music; tree and streamLilting the same low lullaby again,To coax the wind, who romped among the hillsAll dayâ€”a tired childâ€”to sleep and dream:When through the moonlight of the locust-laneShe came, as spring comes through her daffodils.

She came unto himâ€”as the springtime does

Unto the land where all lies dead and cold,

Until her rosary of days is told

And beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was.â€”

Nature divined her coming; yea, the dusk

Seemed thinking of that happiness: behold,

No cloud it had to blot its marigold

Moonâ€”great and goldenâ€”o'er the slopes of musk;

Whereon earth's voice made music; tree and stream

Lilting the same low lullaby again,

To coax the wind, who romped among the hills

All dayâ€”a tired childâ€”to sleep and dream:

When through the moonlight of the locust-lane

She came, as spring comes through her daffodils.

III

White as a lily molded of Earth's milkThat eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:Bright as a Naiad's limbs, from shine to shadeThe runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.And when the western sky seemed some weird land,And night a witch's spell, at whose commandOne sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deepThe warm rose opened, for the moth to sleep;Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

White as a lily molded of Earth's milk

That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;

Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,

Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:

Bright as a Naiad's limbs, from shine to shade

The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;

Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,

Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.

And when the western sky seemed some weird land,

And night a witch's spell, at whose command

One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep

The warm rose opened, for the moth to sleep;

Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,

And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

There where they part the porch's steps are strewnWith wind-dropped petals of the purple vine;Athwart the porch the shadow of a pineCleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm runeHeaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;And now a meteor draws a lilac lineAcross the welkin, as if God would signThe perfect poem of this night of June.The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grassLike crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,The dewdrop trembles in the peony,As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.

There where they part the porch's steps are strewn

With wind-dropped petals of the purple vine;

Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine

Cleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm rune

Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;

And now a meteor draws a lilac line

Across the welkin, as if God would sign

The perfect poem of this night of June.

The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,

Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass

Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;

And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,

The dewdrop trembles in the peony,

As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.

In after years shall she stand here again,In heart regretful? and with lonely sighsThink on that night of love, and realizeWhose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmiseBid darker phantoms of remorse ariseTrailing the raiment of a dead disdain?Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearnWith looks clairvoyant, seeing how each isA different form with eyes and lips that burnInto her heart with love's last look and kiss?â€”And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turnTo her a face which evermore is his?

In after years shall she stand here again,

In heart regretful? and with lonely sighs

Think on that night of love, and realize

Whose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?

And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,

Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmise

Bid darker phantoms of remorse arise

Trailing the raiment of a dead disdain?

Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearn

With looks clairvoyant, seeing how each is

A different form with eyes and lips that burn

Into her heart with love's last look and kiss?â€”

And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turn

To her a face which evermore is his?

In after years shall he remember howDawn had no breeze sweet as her murmured name?And day no sunlight that availed the sameAs her bright smile or beauty of her brow?Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and graysHer soul's allurement, that was free from blame,â€”Nor dusk's advances, soft with starry flame,More young bewitchment than her own sweet ways.â€”Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,And dew and darkness, qualifies the wholeDim world with glamour, shall the past with dreamsâ€”That were the love-theme of their livesâ€”illumeThe present with remembered hours, with gleams,Long lost to him, that bring them soul to soul?

In after years shall he remember how

Dawn had no breeze sweet as her murmured name?

And day no sunlight that availed the same

As her bright smile or beauty of her brow?

Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and grays

Her soul's allurement, that was free from blame,â€”

Nor dusk's advances, soft with starry flame,

More young bewitchment than her own sweet ways.â€”

Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,

And dew and darkness, qualifies the whole

Dim world with glamour, shall the past with dreamsâ€”

That were the love-theme of their livesâ€”illume

The present with remembered hours, with gleams,

Long lost to him, that bring them soul to soul?

VII

No! not for her and him that partâ€”the Might-Have-Been's sad consolation! where had bent,Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.The otherwise of fate for them, when whiteThe lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,Spring comes with beauty for her testament,Singing the praises of the day and night.When orchards blossom and the distant hillIs pale with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,The moon shall see him where a watch he keepsBy her young form that lieth white and still,With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,While by her side he bows himself and weeps.

No! not for her and him that partâ€”the Might-

Have-Been's sad consolation! where had bent,

Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,

Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.

The otherwise of fate for them, when white

The lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,

Spring comes with beauty for her testament,

Singing the praises of the day and night.

When orchards blossom and the distant hill

Is pale with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,

The moon shall see him where a watch he keeps

By her young form that lieth white and still,

With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,

While by her side he bows himself and weeps.

VIII

What pain for him to see the blooms appearOf haw and dogwood in the spring again;The primrose dragging with its weight of rain,And hill-sloped orchards swarming far and near.To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,â€”How vain to him!â€”since she no more is here.What though the woodland bourgeon, water flow,Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!The cat-bird and the oriole arouseDay with the impulsive music of their love!Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!

What pain for him to see the blooms appear

Of haw and dogwood in the spring again;

The primrose dragging with its weight of rain,

And hill-sloped orchards swarming far and near.

To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,

Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,

Yet feel how this excess of life is vain,â€”

How vain to him!â€”since she no more is here.

What though the woodland bourgeon, water flow,

Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!

The cat-bird and the oriole arouse

Day with the impulsive music of their love!

Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,

Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!

How bless'd is he who, gazing in the tomb,Can yet behold beneath the investing maskOf mockery,â€”whose horror seems to askSphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,â€”Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,Weaving the web of promise on her loom!Thrice bless'd! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaimHow all is Death's and Life Death's other name,Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!But that is left which life indeed assuresâ€”Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"

How bless'd is he who, gazing in the tomb,

Can yet behold beneath the investing mask

Of mockery,â€”whose horror seems to ask

Sphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom,â€”

Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;

And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;

But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,

Weaving the web of promise on her loom!

Thrice bless'd! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim

How all is Death's and Life Death's other name,

Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!

But that is left which life indeed assuresâ€”

Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!

Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"

IIs it uneasy moonlight,On the restless field, that stirs?Or wild white meadow-blossomsThe night-wind bends and blurs?Is it the dolorous water,That sobs in the wood and sighs?Or heart of an ancient oak-tree,That breaks and, sighing, dies?The wind is vague with the shadowsThat wander in No-Man's-Land;The water is dark with the voicesThat weep on the Unknown's strand.O ghosts of the winds that call me!O ghosts of the whispering waves!Sad as forgotten flowersThat die upon nameless graves!What is this thing you tell meIn tongues of a twilight race,Of death, with the vanished features,Mantled, of my own face?IIThe old enigmas of the deathless dawns,And riddles of the all immortal eves,â€”That still o'er Delphic lawnsSpeak as the gods spoke through oracular leavesâ€”I read with new-born eyes,Remembering how, a slave,They buried me, a living sacrifice,Once in a dead king's grave.Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys,How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,â€”Hearing the magadisDirge through the pale amaracine perfume,â€”'Mid chanting priests I trod,With never a sigh or pause,To give my life to pacify a god,And save my country's cause.Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair,And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks,How, with mad torches there,â€”Reddening the cedars of CithÃ¦ron's peaks,â€”With gesture and fierce glance,Lascivious MÃ¦nad bandsOnce drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic danceWith Bacchanalian hands.IIIThe music now that laysDim lips against my ears,Some far-off thing it says,â€”Unto my soul,â€”of yearsLong passed into the hazeOf tears.Meseems before me areThe dark eyes of a queen,A queen of Istakhar:I seem to see her leanMore lovely than a starOf mien.A slave, I stand beforeHer jeweled throne; I kneel,And, in a song, once moreMy love for her reveal;How once I did adoreI feel.Again her dark eyes gleam;Again her red lips smile;And in her face the beamOf love that knows no guile;And so she seems to dreamA while.Out of her deep hair thenA rose she takesâ€”and IAm made a god 'mid men!Her rose, that here did lieWhen I, in th' wild-beasts' den,Did die.IVOld paintings on its wainscots,And, in its oaken hall,Old arras; and the twilightOf sorrow over all.Old grandeur on its stairways;And in its haunted roomsOld souvenirs of greatness,And ghosts of dead perfumes.The winds are phantom voicesAround its carven doors;The moonbeams, specter footstepsUpon its polished floors.Old cedars build around itA solitude of sighs;And the old hours pass through itWith immemorial eyes.But more than this I know not;Nor where the house may be;Nor what its ancient secretAnd ancient grief to me.It seems my soul remembers,â€”Of which this house is part,â€”Once, in a former lifetime,'Twas here I broke my heart.VIn eons of the senses,My spirit knew of yore,I found the Isle of CirceAnd felt her magic lore;And still the soul remembersWhat I was once before.She gave me flowers to smell ofThat wizard branches bore,Of weird and wondrous beauty,Whose stems dripped human goreâ€”Their scent when I rememberI know that world once more.She gave me fruits to eat ofThat grew beside the shore,Of necromantic ripeness,With human flesh at coreâ€”Their taste when I rememberI know that life once more.And then, behold! a serpent,That glides my face before,With eyes of tears and fireThat glare me o'er and o'erâ€”I look into its eyeballs,And know myself once more.VII have looked in the eyes of Poesy,And sat in Song's high place;And the beautiful Spirits of MusicHave spoken me face to face;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowThey never can name or trace.I have walked with the glamour Gladness,And dreamed with the shadow Sleep;And the presences, Love and Knowledge,Have smiled in my heart's red keep;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowFor the depth of their gaze too deep.The love and the hope God grants me,The beauty that lures me on,And the dreams of folly and wisdomThat thoughts of the spirit don,Are but masks of an ancient sorrowOf a life long dead and gone.Was it sin? or a crime forgotten?Of a love that loved too well?That sat on a throne of fireA thousand years in Hell?That the soul with its nameless sorrowRemembers but can not tell?

Is it uneasy moonlight,On the restless field, that stirs?Or wild white meadow-blossomsThe night-wind bends and blurs?

Is it uneasy moonlight,

On the restless field, that stirs?

Or wild white meadow-blossoms

The night-wind bends and blurs?

Is it the dolorous water,That sobs in the wood and sighs?Or heart of an ancient oak-tree,That breaks and, sighing, dies?

Is it the dolorous water,

That sobs in the wood and sighs?

Or heart of an ancient oak-tree,

That breaks and, sighing, dies?

The wind is vague with the shadowsThat wander in No-Man's-Land;The water is dark with the voicesThat weep on the Unknown's strand.

The wind is vague with the shadows

That wander in No-Man's-Land;

The water is dark with the voices

That weep on the Unknown's strand.

O ghosts of the winds that call me!O ghosts of the whispering waves!Sad as forgotten flowersThat die upon nameless graves!

O ghosts of the winds that call me!

O ghosts of the whispering waves!

Sad as forgotten flowers

That die upon nameless graves!

What is this thing you tell meIn tongues of a twilight race,Of death, with the vanished features,Mantled, of my own face?

What is this thing you tell me

In tongues of a twilight race,

Of death, with the vanished features,

Mantled, of my own face?

The old enigmas of the deathless dawns,And riddles of the all immortal eves,â€”That still o'er Delphic lawnsSpeak as the gods spoke through oracular leavesâ€”I read with new-born eyes,Remembering how, a slave,They buried me, a living sacrifice,Once in a dead king's grave.

The old enigmas of the deathless dawns,

And riddles of the all immortal eves,â€”

That still o'er Delphic lawns

Speak as the gods spoke through oracular leavesâ€”

I read with new-born eyes,

Remembering how, a slave,

They buried me, a living sacrifice,

Once in a dead king's grave.

Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys,How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,â€”Hearing the magadisDirge through the pale amaracine perfume,â€”'Mid chanting priests I trod,With never a sigh or pause,To give my life to pacify a god,And save my country's cause.

Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys,

How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,â€”

Hearing the magadis

Dirge through the pale amaracine perfume,â€”

'Mid chanting priests I trod,

With never a sigh or pause,

To give my life to pacify a god,

And save my country's cause.

Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair,And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks,How, with mad torches there,â€”Reddening the cedars of CithÃ¦ron's peaks,â€”With gesture and fierce glance,Lascivious MÃ¦nad bandsOnce drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic danceWith Bacchanalian hands.

Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair,

And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks,

How, with mad torches there,â€”

Reddening the cedars of CithÃ¦ron's peaks,â€”

With gesture and fierce glance,

Lascivious MÃ¦nad bands

Once drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance

With Bacchanalian hands.

III

The music now that laysDim lips against my ears,Some far-off thing it says,â€”Unto my soul,â€”of yearsLong passed into the hazeOf tears.

The music now that lays

Dim lips against my ears,

Some far-off thing it says,â€”

Unto my soul,â€”of years

Long passed into the haze

Of tears.

Meseems before me areThe dark eyes of a queen,A queen of Istakhar:I seem to see her leanMore lovely than a starOf mien.

Meseems before me are

The dark eyes of a queen,

A queen of Istakhar:

I seem to see her lean

More lovely than a star

Of mien.

A slave, I stand beforeHer jeweled throne; I kneel,And, in a song, once moreMy love for her reveal;How once I did adoreI feel.

A slave, I stand before

Her jeweled throne; I kneel,

And, in a song, once more

My love for her reveal;

How once I did adore

I feel.

Again her dark eyes gleam;Again her red lips smile;And in her face the beamOf love that knows no guile;And so she seems to dreamA while.

Again her dark eyes gleam;

Again her red lips smile;

And in her face the beam

Of love that knows no guile;

And so she seems to dream

A while.

Out of her deep hair thenA rose she takesâ€”and IAm made a god 'mid men!Her rose, that here did lieWhen I, in th' wild-beasts' den,Did die.

Out of her deep hair then

A rose she takesâ€”and I

Am made a god 'mid men!

Her rose, that here did lie

When I, in th' wild-beasts' den,

Did die.

Old paintings on its wainscots,And, in its oaken hall,Old arras; and the twilightOf sorrow over all.

Old paintings on its wainscots,

And, in its oaken hall,

Old arras; and the twilight

Of sorrow over all.

Old grandeur on its stairways;And in its haunted roomsOld souvenirs of greatness,And ghosts of dead perfumes.

Old grandeur on its stairways;

And in its haunted rooms

Old souvenirs of greatness,

And ghosts of dead perfumes.

The winds are phantom voicesAround its carven doors;The moonbeams, specter footstepsUpon its polished floors.

The winds are phantom voices

Around its carven doors;

The moonbeams, specter footsteps

Upon its polished floors.

Old cedars build around itA solitude of sighs;And the old hours pass through itWith immemorial eyes.

Old cedars build around it

A solitude of sighs;

And the old hours pass through it

With immemorial eyes.

But more than this I know not;Nor where the house may be;Nor what its ancient secretAnd ancient grief to me.

But more than this I know not;

Nor where the house may be;

Nor what its ancient secret

And ancient grief to me.

It seems my soul remembers,â€”Of which this house is part,â€”Once, in a former lifetime,'Twas here I broke my heart.

It seems my soul remembers,â€”

Of which this house is part,â€”

Once, in a former lifetime,

'Twas here I broke my heart.

In eons of the senses,My spirit knew of yore,I found the Isle of CirceAnd felt her magic lore;And still the soul remembersWhat I was once before.

In eons of the senses,

My spirit knew of yore,

I found the Isle of Circe

And felt her magic lore;

And still the soul remembers

What I was once before.

She gave me flowers to smell ofThat wizard branches bore,Of weird and wondrous beauty,Whose stems dripped human goreâ€”Their scent when I rememberI know that world once more.

She gave me flowers to smell of

That wizard branches bore,

Of weird and wondrous beauty,

Whose stems dripped human goreâ€”

Their scent when I remember

I know that world once more.

She gave me fruits to eat ofThat grew beside the shore,Of necromantic ripeness,With human flesh at coreâ€”Their taste when I rememberI know that life once more.

She gave me fruits to eat of

That grew beside the shore,

Of necromantic ripeness,

With human flesh at coreâ€”

Their taste when I remember

I know that life once more.

And then, behold! a serpent,That glides my face before,With eyes of tears and fireThat glare me o'er and o'erâ€”I look into its eyeballs,And know myself once more.

And then, behold! a serpent,

That glides my face before,

With eyes of tears and fire

That glare me o'er and o'erâ€”

I look into its eyeballs,

And know myself once more.

I have looked in the eyes of Poesy,And sat in Song's high place;And the beautiful Spirits of MusicHave spoken me face to face;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowThey never can name or trace.

I have looked in the eyes of Poesy,

And sat in Song's high place;

And the beautiful Spirits of Music

Have spoken me face to face;

Yet here in my soul there is sorrow

They never can name or trace.

I have walked with the glamour Gladness,And dreamed with the shadow Sleep;And the presences, Love and Knowledge,Have smiled in my heart's red keep;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowFor the depth of their gaze too deep.

I have walked with the glamour Gladness,

And dreamed with the shadow Sleep;

And the presences, Love and Knowledge,

Have smiled in my heart's red keep;

Yet here in my soul there is sorrow

For the depth of their gaze too deep.

The love and the hope God grants me,The beauty that lures me on,And the dreams of folly and wisdomThat thoughts of the spirit don,Are but masks of an ancient sorrowOf a life long dead and gone.

The love and the hope God grants me,

The beauty that lures me on,

And the dreams of folly and wisdom

That thoughts of the spirit don,

Are but masks of an ancient sorrow

Of a life long dead and gone.

Was it sin? or a crime forgotten?Of a love that loved too well?That sat on a throne of fireA thousand years in Hell?That the soul with its nameless sorrowRemembers but can not tell?

Was it sin? or a crime forgotten?

Of a love that loved too well?

That sat on a throne of fire

A thousand years in Hell?

That the soul with its nameless sorrow

Remembers but can not tell?

It came to me in my sleep,And I rose in my sleep and wentOut in the night to weep,Out where the trees were bent.With my soul, it seemed, I stoodAlone in a wind-swept wood.And my soul said, gazing at me,"I will show you another landDifferent from that you see,"And took into hers my hand.â€”We passed from the wood to a heathAs starved as the ribs of Death.There, every leaf and the grassWas a thorn or a thistle hoar,The rocks rose mass on mass,Black bones on an iron moor.And my soul said, looking at me,"The past of your life you see."And a swineherd passed with his swine,Deformed, with the face of an owl;Two eyes of a wolfish shineBurned under his eyebrows foul.And my soul said, "This is the Lust,That soils my beauty with dust."Then a goose-wife hobbled by,On a crutch, with the devil's geese,A-mumbling that God is a lie,And cursing the world without cease.And my soul said, "This is UnfaithWho maketh me that which she saith."Then we came to a garden, closeTo a hollow of graves and tombs;A garden as red as a rose,Hung over of obscene glooms;The heart of each rose was a sparkThat smouldered or glared in the dark.And I was aware of a girlWith a wild-rose face, who came,With a mouth like a shell's split pearl,Rose-clad in a robe of flame;And she plucked the roses and gave,And I was her veriest slave.She vanished. My lips would have kissedThe flowers she gave me with sighs,But they writhed from my hands and hissed,In their hearts were a serpent's eyes.And my soul said, "Pleasure is she.The joys of the flesh you see."Then I bowed with a heart too weary,That longed to rest, to sleep;And it seemed in the darkness drearyI heard my sad heart weep;And my soul to the silence say,â€”"O God! for the break of day!"

It came to me in my sleep,And I rose in my sleep and wentOut in the night to weep,Out where the trees were bent.With my soul, it seemed, I stoodAlone in a wind-swept wood.

It came to me in my sleep,

And I rose in my sleep and went

Out in the night to weep,

Out where the trees were bent.

With my soul, it seemed, I stood

Alone in a wind-swept wood.

And my soul said, gazing at me,"I will show you another landDifferent from that you see,"And took into hers my hand.â€”We passed from the wood to a heathAs starved as the ribs of Death.

And my soul said, gazing at me,

"I will show you another land

Different from that you see,"

And took into hers my hand.â€”

We passed from the wood to a heath

As starved as the ribs of Death.

There, every leaf and the grassWas a thorn or a thistle hoar,The rocks rose mass on mass,Black bones on an iron moor.And my soul said, looking at me,"The past of your life you see."

There, every leaf and the grass

Was a thorn or a thistle hoar,

The rocks rose mass on mass,

Black bones on an iron moor.

And my soul said, looking at me,

"The past of your life you see."

And a swineherd passed with his swine,Deformed, with the face of an owl;Two eyes of a wolfish shineBurned under his eyebrows foul.And my soul said, "This is the Lust,That soils my beauty with dust."

And a swineherd passed with his swine,

Deformed, with the face of an owl;

Two eyes of a wolfish shine

Burned under his eyebrows foul.

And my soul said, "This is the Lust,

That soils my beauty with dust."

Then a goose-wife hobbled by,On a crutch, with the devil's geese,A-mumbling that God is a lie,And cursing the world without cease.And my soul said, "This is UnfaithWho maketh me that which she saith."

Then a goose-wife hobbled by,

On a crutch, with the devil's geese,

A-mumbling that God is a lie,

And cursing the world without cease.

And my soul said, "This is Unfaith

Who maketh me that which she saith."

Then we came to a garden, closeTo a hollow of graves and tombs;A garden as red as a rose,Hung over of obscene glooms;The heart of each rose was a sparkThat smouldered or glared in the dark.

Then we came to a garden, close

To a hollow of graves and tombs;

A garden as red as a rose,

Hung over of obscene glooms;

The heart of each rose was a spark

That smouldered or glared in the dark.

And I was aware of a girlWith a wild-rose face, who came,With a mouth like a shell's split pearl,Rose-clad in a robe of flame;And she plucked the roses and gave,And I was her veriest slave.

And I was aware of a girl

With a wild-rose face, who came,

With a mouth like a shell's split pearl,

Rose-clad in a robe of flame;

And she plucked the roses and gave,

And I was her veriest slave.

She vanished. My lips would have kissedThe flowers she gave me with sighs,But they writhed from my hands and hissed,In their hearts were a serpent's eyes.And my soul said, "Pleasure is she.The joys of the flesh you see."

She vanished. My lips would have kissed

The flowers she gave me with sighs,

But they writhed from my hands and hissed,

In their hearts were a serpent's eyes.

And my soul said, "Pleasure is she.

The joys of the flesh you see."

Then I bowed with a heart too weary,That longed to rest, to sleep;And it seemed in the darkness drearyI heard my sad heart weep;And my soul to the silence say,â€”"O God! for the break of day!"

Then I bowed with a heart too weary,

That longed to rest, to sleep;

And it seemed in the darkness dreary

I heard my sad heart weep;

And my soul to the silence say,â€”

"O God! for the break of day!"

Five rotting gables look uponA garden rank with flowers and weeds;Old iron gates on posts of stone,From which the grass-grown roadway leads.Five rotting gable-points appearAbove bleak yews and cedars sad,Beneath which lies the sleepy mereIn lazy lilies clad.At morn the slender dragon-fly,A living ray of light, darts past;The burly bee comes charging byWinding a surly blast.At noon amid the fervid leavesThe insects quarrel, harsh and hot;In bitter briers the spider weavesA web with silver shot.At eve the hermit cricket rearsA plaintive prayer, and creaks and creaks;The bat, like some wing'd elfin, veersBeneath the sunset's streaks.The caterpillar gnaws the leaf;The mottled toad croaks drowsily;And then the owl, like some dark grief,Cries in the old beech-tree.At night the blistering dew comes downAnd lies as white as autumn frostUpon the green, upon the brownâ€”You'd think each bush a ghost.The crescent moon sheathes its white swordWithin a cloud; and, gray with fear,One large blue star keeps stealthy guardAbove the house and mere.The livid lilies rotting lieOn oozy beds of weltering leaves;The will-o'-wisps go flickering by,â€”And then the water heaves,And, like some monstrous blossom there,A maiden's corpse with staring eyes,And naked breast and raven hair,Slow in the mere doth rise.And when the clock of some far townKnells midnight, in that house of sins,In haunted chambers, up and down,The dance of death begins;And stiff, stiff silks sweep, rustling,And stately satins none may see;And then soft sounds of music ringIn wildest melody.And through the halls the demon danceWhirls onward; and dark corridorsResound with song and feet that glanceAlong the falling floors.Then suddenly, as if in fear,The music ends, the dance is done;And booming over house and mereA far-off clock strikes one.

Five rotting gables look upon

A garden rank with flowers and weeds;

Old iron gates on posts of stone,

From which the grass-grown roadway leads.

Five rotting gable-points appear

Above bleak yews and cedars sad,

Beneath which lies the sleepy mere

In lazy lilies clad.

At morn the slender dragon-fly,A living ray of light, darts past;The burly bee comes charging byWinding a surly blast.At noon amid the fervid leavesThe insects quarrel, harsh and hot;In bitter briers the spider weavesA web with silver shot.

At morn the slender dragon-fly,

A living ray of light, darts past;

The burly bee comes charging by

Winding a surly blast.

At noon amid the fervid leaves

The insects quarrel, harsh and hot;

In bitter briers the spider weaves

A web with silver shot.

At eve the hermit cricket rearsA plaintive prayer, and creaks and creaks;The bat, like some wing'd elfin, veersBeneath the sunset's streaks.The caterpillar gnaws the leaf;The mottled toad croaks drowsily;And then the owl, like some dark grief,Cries in the old beech-tree.

At eve the hermit cricket rears

A plaintive prayer, and creaks and creaks;

The bat, like some wing'd elfin, veers

Beneath the sunset's streaks.

The caterpillar gnaws the leaf;

The mottled toad croaks drowsily;

And then the owl, like some dark grief,

Cries in the old beech-tree.

At night the blistering dew comes downAnd lies as white as autumn frostUpon the green, upon the brownâ€”You'd think each bush a ghost.The crescent moon sheathes its white swordWithin a cloud; and, gray with fear,One large blue star keeps stealthy guardAbove the house and mere.

At night the blistering dew comes down

And lies as white as autumn frost

Upon the green, upon the brownâ€”

You'd think each bush a ghost.

The crescent moon sheathes its white sword

Within a cloud; and, gray with fear,

One large blue star keeps stealthy guard

Above the house and mere.

The livid lilies rotting lieOn oozy beds of weltering leaves;The will-o'-wisps go flickering by,â€”And then the water heaves,And, like some monstrous blossom there,A maiden's corpse with staring eyes,And naked breast and raven hair,Slow in the mere doth rise.

The livid lilies rotting lie

On oozy beds of weltering leaves;

The will-o'-wisps go flickering by,â€”

And then the water heaves,

And, like some monstrous blossom there,

A maiden's corpse with staring eyes,

And naked breast and raven hair,

Slow in the mere doth rise.

And when the clock of some far townKnells midnight, in that house of sins,In haunted chambers, up and down,The dance of death begins;And stiff, stiff silks sweep, rustling,And stately satins none may see;And then soft sounds of music ringIn wildest melody.

And when the clock of some far town

Knells midnight, in that house of sins,

In haunted chambers, up and down,

The dance of death begins;

And stiff, stiff silks sweep, rustling,

And stately satins none may see;

And then soft sounds of music ring

In wildest melody.

And through the halls the demon danceWhirls onward; and dark corridorsResound with song and feet that glanceAlong the falling floors.Then suddenly, as if in fear,The music ends, the dance is done;And booming over house and mereA far-off clock strikes one.

And through the halls the demon dance

Whirls onward; and dark corridors

Resound with song and feet that glance

Along the falling floors.

Then suddenly, as if in fear,

The music ends, the dance is done;

And booming over house and mere

A far-off clock strikes one.

The autumn glory fadesUpon the withered trees;And over all the dead leaves fallAnd whisper in the breeze.The violets are dead,And dead the hollyhocks,That hang like rags by the wind-crushed flagsAnd tiger-lily stocks.The wild gourd clambers freeWhere the clematis was wont;Where nenuphars bloomed thick as starsRank weeds fill up the fount.Yet, as in dreams, I hearA tinkling mandolinIn the dark-blue light of a fragrant nightFloat in and out and in.Till the dewy vine, that climbsTo a casement's lattice, sways;And behind the vine, like stars that shine,Two dark eyes gleam and gaze.And now a perfume comes,A swift Favonian gust;And the shrivelled grass, where it doth pass,Bows worshiping to the dust.I seem to see her driftFrom tree to moonlit tree,In her jewelled shawl divinely tall,A mist of drapery.And one awaits her thereBy the broken Psyche old;And there they stand, pale hand in hand,Her thin wrists hooped with gold.But a wind sweeps overhead,And the frosty leaves are strewnâ€”And nothing is there but a bough, blown bare,And the light of the ghostly moon.

The autumn glory fadesUpon the withered trees;And over all the dead leaves fallAnd whisper in the breeze.

The autumn glory fades

Upon the withered trees;

And over all the dead leaves fall

And whisper in the breeze.

The violets are dead,And dead the hollyhocks,That hang like rags by the wind-crushed flagsAnd tiger-lily stocks.

The violets are dead,

And dead the hollyhocks,

That hang like rags by the wind-crushed flags

And tiger-lily stocks.

The wild gourd clambers freeWhere the clematis was wont;Where nenuphars bloomed thick as starsRank weeds fill up the fount.

The wild gourd clambers free

Where the clematis was wont;

Where nenuphars bloomed thick as stars

Rank weeds fill up the fount.

Yet, as in dreams, I hearA tinkling mandolinIn the dark-blue light of a fragrant nightFloat in and out and in.

Yet, as in dreams, I hear

A tinkling mandolin

In the dark-blue light of a fragrant night

Float in and out and in.

Till the dewy vine, that climbsTo a casement's lattice, sways;And behind the vine, like stars that shine,Two dark eyes gleam and gaze.

Till the dewy vine, that climbs

To a casement's lattice, sways;

And behind the vine, like stars that shine,

Two dark eyes gleam and gaze.

And now a perfume comes,A swift Favonian gust;And the shrivelled grass, where it doth pass,Bows worshiping to the dust.

And now a perfume comes,

A swift Favonian gust;

And the shrivelled grass, where it doth pass,

Bows worshiping to the dust.

I seem to see her driftFrom tree to moonlit tree,In her jewelled shawl divinely tall,A mist of drapery.

I seem to see her drift

From tree to moonlit tree,

In her jewelled shawl divinely tall,

A mist of drapery.

And one awaits her thereBy the broken Psyche old;And there they stand, pale hand in hand,Her thin wrists hooped with gold.

And one awaits her there

By the broken Psyche old;

And there they stand, pale hand in hand,

Her thin wrists hooped with gold.

But a wind sweeps overhead,And the frosty leaves are strewnâ€”And nothing is there but a bough, blown bare,And the light of the ghostly moon.

But a wind sweeps overhead,

And the frosty leaves are strewnâ€”

And nothing is there but a bough, blown bare,

And the light of the ghostly moon.

Its casements, diamond-disked with glass,Look down upon a terrace old,Where urns, unkempt with ragged grass,Foam o'er with hoary cold.The snow rounds out each stair of stone;The frozen fount is hooped with pearl;Down desolate walks, like phantoms blown,Thin, powdery snow-wreaths whirl.And to each rose-tree's stem, that bendsWith silvery snow-combs, glued with frost,It seems each summer rosebud sendsIts airy, scentless ghost.A stiff Elizabethan pile,With bleakness chattering in its panes,Where, rumbling down each chimney-file,The mad wind shakes his reins.Lone in the northern angle, dimWith immemorial dust, it lies;Where each gaunt casement's stony rimStares eyelike at the skies.Drear in the old pile's oldest wing,Hung round with mouldering arras, whereTall, shadowy Tristrams fight and singFor shadowy Isolts fair.Beside a crumbling cabinetA tarnished lute lies on the floor;A talon-footed chair is set,Grotesquely, near the door.A carven, testered bedstead standsWith rusty silks draped all about;And, like a moon in murky lands,A mirror glimmers out.Neglected, locked that chamber, whereIn dropping arras dimly clingsThe drowsy moth; and, frightened there,The lost wind sighs and singsAdown the roomy flue, and takesAnd swings the ghostly mirror tillIt seems some unseen hand that shakesIts frame then leaves it still.A starving mouse forever gnawsBehind a panel; and the vines,That on the casement tap like claws,Lattice the floor with lines.â€”I have been there when blades of lightStabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”I dream of it again....She grew upon my vision asHeat grows that haunts the summer day;In taffetas, like glimmering glass,She stood there dim and gray.And will-o'-wisp-like jewels boundFaint points of light round neck and wrist;And round her slender waist was woundA zone of silver mist.And icy as some winter landHer pale, still face; o'er which the nightHung of her raven hair; her handWas beautiful and white.Before the mirror moaninglyShe wrung her hands and palely pressedHer brow.â€”And did I dream, or see,That blood was on her breast?And then she vanished.â€”Like a breath,That o'er the limpid glass had passed,Her presence passed; and cold as deathShe left me and aghast.Yes, I've been there when spears of lightPierced thro' each stained and sunlit pane;Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”I dream of it again.

Its casements, diamond-disked with glass,

Look down upon a terrace old,

Where urns, unkempt with ragged grass,

Foam o'er with hoary cold.

The snow rounds out each stair of stone;

The frozen fount is hooped with pearl;

Down desolate walks, like phantoms blown,

Thin, powdery snow-wreaths whirl.

And to each rose-tree's stem, that bendsWith silvery snow-combs, glued with frost,It seems each summer rosebud sendsIts airy, scentless ghost.A stiff Elizabethan pile,With bleakness chattering in its panes,Where, rumbling down each chimney-file,The mad wind shakes his reins.

And to each rose-tree's stem, that bends

With silvery snow-combs, glued with frost,

It seems each summer rosebud sends

Its airy, scentless ghost.

A stiff Elizabethan pile,

With bleakness chattering in its panes,

Where, rumbling down each chimney-file,

The mad wind shakes his reins.

Lone in the northern angle, dimWith immemorial dust, it lies;Where each gaunt casement's stony rimStares eyelike at the skies.Drear in the old pile's oldest wing,Hung round with mouldering arras, whereTall, shadowy Tristrams fight and singFor shadowy Isolts fair.

Lone in the northern angle, dim

With immemorial dust, it lies;

Where each gaunt casement's stony rim

Stares eyelike at the skies.

Drear in the old pile's oldest wing,

Hung round with mouldering arras, where

Tall, shadowy Tristrams fight and sing

For shadowy Isolts fair.

Beside a crumbling cabinetA tarnished lute lies on the floor;A talon-footed chair is set,Grotesquely, near the door.A carven, testered bedstead standsWith rusty silks draped all about;And, like a moon in murky lands,A mirror glimmers out.

Beside a crumbling cabinet

A tarnished lute lies on the floor;

A talon-footed chair is set,

Grotesquely, near the door.

A carven, testered bedstead stands

With rusty silks draped all about;

And, like a moon in murky lands,

A mirror glimmers out.

Neglected, locked that chamber, whereIn dropping arras dimly clingsThe drowsy moth; and, frightened there,The lost wind sighs and singsAdown the roomy flue, and takesAnd swings the ghostly mirror tillIt seems some unseen hand that shakesIts frame then leaves it still.

Neglected, locked that chamber, where

In dropping arras dimly clings

The drowsy moth; and, frightened there,

The lost wind sighs and sings

Adown the roomy flue, and takes

And swings the ghostly mirror till

It seems some unseen hand that shakes

Its frame then leaves it still.

A starving mouse forever gnawsBehind a panel; and the vines,That on the casement tap like claws,Lattice the floor with lines.â€”I have been there when blades of lightStabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”I dream of it again....

A starving mouse forever gnaws

Behind a panel; and the vines,

That on the casement tap like claws,

Lattice the floor with lines.â€”

I have been there when blades of light

Stabbed each dull, stained, and dusty pane;

Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”

I dream of it again....

She grew upon my vision asHeat grows that haunts the summer day;In taffetas, like glimmering glass,She stood there dim and gray.And will-o'-wisp-like jewels boundFaint points of light round neck and wrist;And round her slender waist was woundA zone of silver mist.

She grew upon my vision as

Heat grows that haunts the summer day;

In taffetas, like glimmering glass,

She stood there dim and gray.

And will-o'-wisp-like jewels bound

Faint points of light round neck and wrist;

And round her slender waist was wound

A zone of silver mist.

And icy as some winter landHer pale, still face; o'er which the nightHung of her raven hair; her handWas beautiful and white.Before the mirror moaninglyShe wrung her hands and palely pressedHer brow.â€”And did I dream, or see,That blood was on her breast?

And icy as some winter land

Her pale, still face; o'er which the night

Hung of her raven hair; her hand

Was beautiful and white.

Before the mirror moaningly

She wrung her hands and palely pressed

Her brow.â€”And did I dream, or see,

That blood was on her breast?

And then she vanished.â€”Like a breath,That o'er the limpid glass had passed,Her presence passed; and cold as deathShe left me and aghast.Yes, I've been there when spears of lightPierced thro' each stained and sunlit pane;Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”I dream of it again.

And then she vanished.â€”Like a breath,

That o'er the limpid glass had passed,

Her presence passed; and cold as death

She left me and aghast.

Yes, I've been there when spears of light

Pierced thro' each stained and sunlit pane;

Once I was there at dead of nightâ€”

I dream of it again.

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