The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics

BEYOND

Hangs stormed with stars the night,Deep over deep,A majesty, a might,To feel and keep.2Ah! what is such and such,Love, canst thou tell?That shrinks – though 'tis not much —To weep farewell.3That hates the dawn and lark;Would have the wail, —Sobbed through the ceaseless dark, —O' the nightingale.4Yes, earth, thy life were worthNot much to me,Were there not after earthEternity.5>God gave thee life to keep —And what hath life? —Love, faith, and care, and sleepWhere dreams are rife.6Death's sleep, whose shadows startThe tears in eyesOf love, that fill the heartThat breaks and dies.7And faith is never givenWithout some care,That leadeth us to heavenBy ways of prayer.8The nightingale and darkAre thine then here;Beyond, the light and larkEternal there.

SHADOWS

1Ha! help! – 'twas palpable!A ghost that throngedUp from the mind or hellOf one I wronged!2'Tis past and – silence! – naught! —A vision bornOf the scared mind o'erwroughtWith dreams forlorn:3The bastard brood of DeathAnd Sleep that wakesGrim fancies with its breath,And reason shakes.4Would that the grave could rotLike flesh the soul,Gnaw through with worms and notLeave it thus whole,5More than it was in earthBeyond the grave,Much more in death than birthTo conscience slave!

CHECK AND COUNTER-CHECK

1Vent all your coward's wrathUpon me so! —Yes, I have crossed your pathAnd will not go!2Storm at me hate, and nameMe all that's vile,"Lust," "filth," "disease," and "shame,"I only smile.3Me brute rage can not hurt,It only flingsIn your own eyes blind dirtThat bites and stings.4Rave at your like such whine,Your fellow-men,This wrath! – great God! and mine! —What is it then?5No words! no oaths! such hateAs devils smileWhen raw success cries "wait!"And "afterwhile!"6A woman I and ill,A courtesanYou wearied of, would kill,And you – a man!7You, you – unnamable!A thing there's not,Too base to burn in Hell,Too vile to rot.

SEMPER IDEM

1Hold up thy head and crushThy heart's despair;From thy wan temples brushThe tear-wet hair.2Look on me thus as IGaze upon thee;Nor question how nor whySuch things can be.3Thou thought'st it love! – poor fool!That which was lust!Which made thee, beautiful,Vile as the dust!4Thy flesh I craved, thy face! —Love shrinks at this —Now on thy lips to placeOne farewell kiss! —5Weep not, but die! – 'tis given —And so – farewell! —Die! – that which makes death heaven,Makes life a hell.

TWO LIVES

1"There is no God," one said,And love is lust;When I am dead I'm dead,And all is dust."Be merry while you canBefore you're gray;With some wild courtesanDrink care away."2One said, "A God there is,And God is love;Death is not death, but bliss,And life above."Above all flesh is mind;And faith and truthGod's gifts to poor mankindThat make life youth."3One from a harlot's sideArose at morn;One cursing God had diedThat night forlorn.

FOREVERMORE

IO heart that vainly followsThe flight of summer swallows,Far over holts and hollows,O'er frozen buds and flowers;To violet seas and levels,Where Love Time's locks dishevelsWith merry mimes and revelsOf aphrodisiac Hours.IIO Love who, dreaming, borrowsDead love from sad to-morrows,The broken heart that sorrows,The blighted hopes that weep;Pale faces pale with sleeping;Red eyelids red with weeping;Dead lips dead secrets keeping,That shake the deeps of sleep!IIIO Memory that showersAbout the withered hoursWhite, ruined, sodden flowers,Dead dust and bitter rain;Dead loves with faces teary;Dead passions wan and dreary;The weary, weary, weary,Dead heart-ache and the pain!IVO give us back the blisses,Lost madness of moist kisses,The youth, the joy, the tresses,The fragrant limbs of white;The high heart like a jewelAlive with subtle fuel,Lips beautiful and cruel,Eyes' incarnated light!VInstead of tears, wild laughterThe old hot passions after,The houri sweets that dafterMade flesh and soul a slave!Enough of tearful sorrows;Enough of rank to-morrows;The life that whines and borrowsBut memories of the grave!VIThe grave that breaks no nettingOf care or spint's fretting,No long, long sweet forgettingFor those who would forget;And those who stammer by itHope of an endless quiet,Within them voiceless riotWhen they and it have met.VIIAnd God we pray beseeching, —But Life with finger reaching,Stone-stern, remaineth teachingOur hearts to turn to stone;Then fain are we to followThe last, lorn, soaring swallowPast bourns of holt and hollowForevermore alone.

A BLOWN ROSE

Lay but a finger onThat pallid petal sweet,It trembles gray and wanBeneath the passing feet.But soft! blown rose, we knowA merriment of bloom,A life of sturdy glow, —But no such dear perfume.As some good bard, whose pageOf life with beauty's fraught,Grays on to ripe old ageSweet-mellowed through with thought.So when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,The mind, which is not dead,Sheds round it rare perfume.

TO-MORROW

A Lorelei full fair she sitsThroned on the stream that dimly rolls;Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men's souls.They hear her harp, they hear her song,Led by the wizard beauty high,Like blind brutes maddened rush along,Sink at her cold feet, gasp and die.

MNEMOSYNE

In classic beauty, cold, immaculate,A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands,Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate,That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.

THE SIRENS

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres' sonorous gold,And beckon naked beauty from the seaIn arms and breasts and hips of godly mold,Dark, strangling hair carousing to the knee.In vain! in vain! and dull in unclosed earsTo one loved voice sweet calling o'er the foam,Which in my heart like some strong hand appearsTo gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

THE VINTAGER

Among the fragrant grapes she bows;Long, violet clusters heap her hands;About her satyr throats and browsFlush at her smiled commands.And from her sun-burnt throat at times,As bubbles burst on new-made wine,A happy fit of merry rhymesRings down the hills of vine.From out one heart, remorseless sweet,She plucked the big-grape passion there;Trod in the wine-press of her feet,It grew into despair:Until she drained its honeyed must,Which, tingling inward part by part,Fierce mounted thro' her glowing bustAnd centered in her heart.

A STORMY SUNSET

1Soul of my body! what a deathFor such a day of envious gloom,Unbroken passion of the sky!As if the pure, kind-hearted breathOf some soft power, ever nigh,Had, cleaving in the bitter sheath,Burst from its grave a gorgeous bloom.2The majesty of clouds that swarm.Expanding in a furious lengthOf molten-metal petals, flowsUnutterable, and where the warm,Full fire is centered, swims and glowsThe evening star fresh-faced with strength,A shimmering rain-drop of the storm.

ON A DIAL

1To-morrow and to-morrowIs but to-day:The world wags but to borrowTime that grows gray: —Grammercy! time's but sorrowAnd – well away!2Since time hales but to sadnessAnd to decay,Men needs wax fools for madness,Laugh, curse, and pray;Death grapples with their badness —The Devil's to pay.

UNUTTERABLE

There is a sorrow in the wind to-nightThat haunteth me; she, like a penitent,Heaps on rent hairs the snow's thin ashes whiteAnd moans and moans, her swaying body bent.And Superstition gliding softly shakesWith wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek,The rustling curtains; of each cranny makesCold, ghostly lips that wailing fain would speak.

MIDSUMMER

The red blood clings in her cheeks and stingsThrough their tan with a fever that lightens,And the clearness of heaven-born mountain springsIn her dark eyes dusks and brightens.And her limbs are the limbs of an Atalanta who swingsWith the youths in the sinewy games,When the hot air sings thro' the hair it flings,And the circus roars hoarse with their names,As they fly to the goal that flames.A voice as deep as wan waters that sweepThro' the musical reeds of a river;A song of red reapers that bind and reap,With the ring of curved scythes that quiver.The note-like lisp of the pippins that leap,Ripe-mellowed to gold, to the ground;The murmurous sleep that the cool leaves keepOn close lips that trickle with sound.And sweet is the beat of her glowing feet,And her smiles as wide heavens are gracious;And the creating might of her hands of heatAs a god's or a goddess's spacious.The elastic veins thro' her heart that beatAre rich with a perishless fire,And her bosoms most sweet are the ardent seatOf a mother that never will tire.Wherever she fares her soft voice bearsHigh powers of being that thickenIn fruits, as the winds made Thessalian maresOf old mysteriously quicken;The apricots' juice and the juice of the pears,The wine great grape-clusters hold,These, these are her cares, and her wealth she declaresIn her corn's vast billows of gold.All hail to her lips, and her fruitful hips,And her motherly thickness of tresses;All hail to the sweetness that slips and dripsFrom her breasts which the light caresses.A toiler, whose fair arm heaps and whipsGreat chariots that heavily creak;A worker, who sweats on the groaning ships.And never grows weary or weak.

A FAIRY CAVALIER

By a mushroom in the moon,White as bud from budded berry,Silver buckles on my shoon, —Ho! the moon shines merry.Here I sit and drink my grog, —Stocks and tunic ouphen yellow,Skinned from belly of a frog, —Quite a fine, fierce fellow.My good cloak a bat's wing gave,And a beetle's wings my bonnet,And a moth's head grew the brave,Gallant feather on it.Faith! I have rich jewels rare,Rings and carcanets all studdedThick with spiders' eyes, that glareLike great rubies blooded.And I swear, sirs, by my blade,"Sirrah, a good stabbing hanger!" —From a hornet's stinger made, —When I am in anger.Fill the lichen pottles up!Honey pressed from hearts of roses;Cheek by jowl, up with each cupTill we hide our noses.Good, sirs! – marry! – 'tis the cock!Hey, away! the moon's lost fire!Ho! the cock our dial and clock —Hide we 'neath this brier.

THE FARMSTEAD

Yes, a lovely homestead; thereIn the Spring your lilacs blewPlenteous perfume everywhere;There your gladiolas grew,Parallels of scarlet glare.And the moon-hued primrose cool,Satin-soft and redolent;Honey-suckles beautiful,Balming all the air with scent;Roses red or white as wool.Roses glorious and lush,Rich in tender-tinted dyes,Like a gay, tempestuous rushOf unnumbered butterfliesLighting on each bending bush.Here the fire-bush and the box,And the wayward violets;Clumps of star-enameled phlox,And the myriad flowery jetsOf the twilight four-o'clocks.Ah, the beauty of the placeWhen the June made one great roseFull of musk and mellow grace,In the garden's humming close,Of her comely mother face!Bubble-like the hollyhocksBudded, burst and flaunted wideGypsy beauty from their stocks.Morning-glories, bubble-dyed,Swung in honey-hearted flocks.Tawny tiger-lilies flungDoublets slashed with crimson on;Graceful slave-girls fair and young,Like Circassians, in the sunAlabaster lilies swung.Ah, the droning of the beeIn his dusty pantaloonsTumbling in the fleurs-de-lis;In the drowsy afternoonsDreaming in the pink sweet-pea.Ah, the moaning wild-wood doveWith its throat of amethystRuffled like a shining cove,Which a wind to pearl hath kissed,Moaning, moaning of its love.And the insects' gossip thin,From the summer hotness hid,In the leafy shadows green,Then at eve the katydidWith its hard, unvaried din.Often from the whispering hillsLorn within the golden dusk, —Gold with gold of daffodils, —Thrilled into the garden's muskThe wild wail of whippoorwills.From the purple tangled trees,Like the white, full heart of night,Solemn with majestic peace,Swam the big moon veined with light,Like some gorgeous golden fleece.You were there with me, and you,In the magic of the hour,Almost swore that you could viewBeading on each blade and flowerMoony blisters of the dew.And each Fairy of our home —Fire-fly – its torch then litIn the honey-scented gloam,Dashing down the dusk with it,Like an instant flaming foam.And we heard the calling, calling,Of the wild owl in the brakeWhere the trumpet-vine hung crawling;Down the ledge into the lakeHeard the sighing streamlet falling.Then we wandered to the creek,Where the water-lilies growing,Like fair maidens white and weak, —Naked in the brooklet's flowing, —Stooped to bathe a bashful cheek.And the moonbeams rippling goldenFell in saint-sweet aureolesOn chaste bosoms half beholden,Till, meseemed, the dainty soulsOf pale moon-fays, there enfoldenIn such beauty, dimly faintedBaby-cribbed within each bud,Till a night wind piney-tainted,Swooning over field and flood,Rocked them to a slumber sainted.Then a low, melodious bellOf some sleeping heifer tinkledIn some berry-briered dell,As her satin dewlap wrinkledWith the cud that made it swell.And returning home we heardIn a beech tree at the gateSome brown, dream-behaunted birdSinging of its absent mate,Of the mate that never heard.And you see, now I am gray,Why within the old, old place,With such memories I stay,Fancy out your absent faceLong since passed away.You were mine – yes, still are mine:And this frosty memoryReels about you as with wineWarmed into wild eyes which seeAll of you that is divine.Yes, I love it, and have grownMelancholy in that loveAnd that memory aloneOf perfection such, whereofYou could sanctify a stone.And where'er your poppies swing —There we walk, – as if a beeFanned them with his puny wing, —Down your garden shadowyIn the hush the evenings bring.

FIVE FANCIES

I

THE GLADIOLAS

As tall as the lily, as tall as the rose,And almost as tall as the hollyhocks,Ranked breast to breast in sentinel rowsStand the gladiola stocks.And some are red as the humming-bird's bloodAnd some are pied as the butterfly race,And each is shaped like a velvet hoodGold-lined with delicate lace.For you know the goblins that come like muskTo tumble and romp in the flowers' laps,When you see big fire-fly eyes in the dusk,Hang there their goblin caps.

II

THE MORNING-GLORIES

They bloom up the fresh, green trellisIn airy, vigorous ease,And their fragrant, sensuous honeyIs best beloved of the bees.Oh! the rose knows the dainty secretHow the morning-glory blows,For the rose told me the secret,And the jessamine told the rose.And the jessamine said at midnight,Ere the red cock woke and crew,That the fays of queen TitaniaCame there to bathe in the dew.And the merry moonlight glistenedOn wet, long, yellow hair,And their feet on the flowers drowsyTrod softer than any air.And their petticoats, gay as bubbles,They hung up every oneOn the morning-glories' tendrilsTill their moonlight bath were done.But the red cock crew too early,And the fays left hurriedly,And this is why in the morningTheir petticoats there you see.

III

THE TIGER-LILY

A sultan proud and tawnyAt elegant ease he stands,With his bare throat brown and scrawny,And his indolent, leaf-like hands.And the eunuch tulips that listenIn their gaudy turbans so,With their scimetar leaves that glisten,Are guards of his seraglio;Where sultana roses musky,Voluptuous in houri charms,With their bold breasts deep and dusky,Impatiently wait his arms.Tall, beautiful, sad, and slender,His Greek-girl dancing slaves,For the white-limbed lilies tenderHis royal hand he waves.While he watches them, softly smiling,His favorite rose that hourWith a butterfly gallant is wilingIn her attar-scented bower.

IV

VENGEANCE

ILet it sink, let it sinkOn the pungent-petaled pinkBy those poppy puffs;Fairy-fashioned downiness,Light, weak moth in furry dressOf white fluffy stuffs.IIWhere the thin light slipping sweetDimples prints of Fairy feetOn the white-rose blooms,One dim blossom delicateDroops a face all pale with hate,Dead with sick perfumes.IIIAnd I read the riddle woveIn this rose's course of loveFor the fickle pink: —Thou the rose's phantom artStealing to the pink's false heartVampire-like to drink.

V

A DEAD LILY

IThe South had saluted her mouthTill her mouth was sweet with the South.IIAnd the North with his breathings lowMade the blood in her veins like his snow.IIIAnd the West with his smiles and his artPoured his honey of life in her heart.IVAnd the East had in whisperings toldHis secrets more precious than gold.VSo she grew to a beautiful thoughtWhich a godhead of love had wrought.VIAs strange how the power begot itAs why – but to kill it and rot it.

MY SUIT

Faith! the Dandelion isTo my mind too lowly;Then the winsome VioletIs, forsooth, too holy.There's the Touch-me-not – go to!What! a face that's speckledLike a buxom milking-maid'sWhich the sun hath freckled!And the Tiger-lily's wild,Flirts, is fierce and haughty;And the Sweet-Brier Rose, I swear,Pricks you and is naughty.Columbine a fool's cap hath,Then she is too merry;Gossip, I would sooner wooSome plebeian Berry.There's the shy Anemone, —Well – her face shows sorrow;Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,Dead and gone to-morrow.And that big-eyed, fair-cheeked wench,The untoward Daisy,She's been wooed, aye! overmuch —Then she is too lazy.Pleasant persons are they all,And their virtues many;Faith, I know but good of all,And naught ill of any.Marry! 'tis a May-apple,Fair-skinned as a Saxon,Whom I woo, a fragrant thingDelicate and waxen.

THE FAMILY BURYING-GROUND

A wall of crumbling stones doth keepWatch o'er long barrows where they sleep,Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead,On which oblivious mosses creepAnd lichens gray as lead.Warm days the lost cows as they passRest here and browse the juicy grassThat springs about its sun-scorched stones;Afar one hears their bells' deep brassWaft melancholy tones.Here the wild morning-glory goesA-rambling as the myrtle grows,Wild morning-glories pale as pain,With holy urns, that hint at woes,The night hath filled with rain.Here are blackberries largest seen,Rich, winey dark, whereon the leanBlack hornet sucks, noons sick with heat,That bend not to the shadowed greenThe heavy bearded wheat.At dark, for its forgotten dead,A requiem, of no known wind said,Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,While to thin starlight overheadThe shivering screech-owl sobs.

THE WATER-MAID

There she rose as white as death,Stars above and stars beneath;Where the ripples brake in splendorTo a million, million starletsTwinkling on lake-lilies tender,Rocking to the ripple barlets.She, brow-belted with white lilies,Rose and oared a shining shoulderTo a downward-purpling boulder:With slim fingers soft and milky,Haled her from the spray-sprent liliesTo a ledge, and sitting silkySang unto the list'ning lilies,Sang and sang beneath the heaven,Belted, wreathed with lilies seven;Falsely sang a wild, wild dittyTo a wool-white moon;Till a child both frail and prettyFound her singing on the boulder, —Dark locks on a milky shoulder, —'Neath the wool-white moon.And the creature singing thereStrangled him in her long hair.

THE SEA-KING

1In green sea-caverns dim,Deep down,A monarch pale and slim,Whose soul's a frown,He ruleth cold and grimIn foamy crown:In green sea-caverns dim,Deep down.2He hears the Mermaid singSo sad!Far off like some curs'd thing,That ne'er is glad,A vague, wild murmuring,That drives men mad:He hears the Mermaid singSo sad!3Strange monster bulks are there,That yawnOr roll huge eyes that glareAnd then are gone;Weird foliage passing fairWhere clings the spawn:Strange monster bulks are there,That yawn.4What cares he for wrecked hullsThese years!Red gold the water dulls!Grim, dead-men jeersOn jaws of a thousand skullsOf mariners!What cares he for wrecked hullsThese years!5Man's tears are loved of him,Deep down;Set in the foamy rimOf his frail crownTo pearls the tear-drops dimFreeze at his frown:Man's tears are loved of him,Deep down.6Here be the halls of SleepFull mute,Chill, shadowy, and deep,Where hangs no luteTo make the still heart leapOf man or brute:Here be the halls of SleepFull mute.

WHERE AND WHAT?

Her ivied towers tallOld forests belt and bar,And oh! the West's dim mountain crestsThat line the blue afar.Her gardens face dark cliffs,That seeth against a seaAs blue and deep as the eyes of SleepWith saddening mystery.Red sands roll leagues on leaguesRibbed of the wind and wave;The near warm sky bends from on highThe pale brow of a slave.And when the morning's beamsLie crushed on crag and bay,A wail of flutes and soft-strung lutesO'er the lone land swoons away.The woods are 'roused from rest,A scent of earth and brine,By brake and lake the wild things wake,And torrents leap and shine.But she in one gray towerWhite-faced knows how he died,And a murderous scorn on her lips is bornTo curse his heart that lied.She smiles and sorrows not:"Ah, death! to know," she moans,"The gluttonous grave of the bitter waveLaughs loud above his bones!"She laughs and hating yearnsOut toward the surf's far reach,Like one in sleep, who, wild to weep,Hath only moans for speech.And when the sun had set,And crocus heavens had fedTheir wan fire soon to a thorn-thin moon,The flocking stars that led,A breeze set in from seaMost odorous with spice,And streamed among big stars that hungThin mists as white as ice.And then her eyes waxed largeWith one last hideous hope,And her throat she bent toward the firmament,Star-scattered scope on scope.The haunted night, that feltThe rapture so accursed,Shook, loosening one green star that spunWild down the dusk and burst.Fair was her face as Sin's;"Ah, wretch!" she wailed, "to knowA wormy seat at Death's lean feetMay not undo such woe!"The devil-wrangling pitMuch dearer than God's deepsOf serious skies, where thought ne'er diesAnd memory never sleeps!"And dearer far than both,Than Heaven or Hell, the jest,The godless lot to rot and rot,And not be cursed or blessed!"

THE SPRING

"O Fons Bandusiæ!"Push back the brambles, berry-blue,The hollowed spring is full in view;Deep tangled with luxuriant fernIts rock-imbedded crystal urn.Not for the loneliness that keepsThe coigne wherein its silence sleeps;Not for wild butterflies that swayTheir pansy pinions all the dayAbove its mirror; nor the bee,Nor dragon-fly which passing seeThemselves reflected in its spar;Not for the one white, liquid starThat twinkles in its firmament,Nor moon-shot clouds so slowly sentAthwart it when the kindly nightBeads all its grasses with the light,Small jewels of the dimpled dew;Not for the day's reflected blue,Nor the quaint, dainty colored stonesThat dance within it where it moans;Not for all these I love to sitIn silence and to gaze in it.But, know, a nymph with merry eyesMeets mine within its laughing skies;A graceful, naked nymph who playsAll the long fragrant summer daysWith instant sight of bees and birds,And speaks with them in water-words.One for whose nakedness the airWeaves moony mists, and on whose hair,Unfilleted, the night will setThat lone star as a coronet.

LILLITA

Can I forget how, when you stood'Mid orchards whence spring bloom had fled,Stars made the orchards seem a-bud,And weighed the sighing boughs o'erheadWith shining ghosts of blossoms dead!Or when you bowed, a lily tall,Above your August lilies slim,Transparent pale, that by the wallLike softest moonlight seemed to swim,Brimmed with faint fragrance to the brim.And in the cloud that lingered low —A silent pallor in the West —There stirred and beat a golden glowOf some great heart that could not rest,A heart of gold within its breast.Your heart, your life was in the wild,Your joy to hear the whip-poor-willLament its love, when wafted mildThe harvest drifted from the hill:The deep, deep wildwood where had trodThe red deer o'er the fallen hushOf Fall's torn leaves, when the low todWas frosty 'neath each berried bush.At dusk the whip-will still complainsAbove your lolling lilies, whereTheir faces white the moonlight stains,The dreamy stream flows far and fairWhisp'ring of rest an easeful air …O music of the falling rain,At night unto her painless restSound sweet and sad, then is she fainTo see the wild flowers on her breastLift moist, pure faces up againTo breathe to God their fragrance blest.Thick-pleated beeches long have crossedOld, mighty arms above her tombWhere oft I watch at night her ghostBow to the wild-flower's full-blown bloomA mist of curls, where Summer lostHer tangled sunbeams and perfume.

ARTEMIS

Oft of the hiding Oread wast thou seenAt earliest morn, a tall imperial shape,High-buskined, dew-dripped, and on close, chaste curls,Long blackness of thick hair, the tipsy dropsCaught from the dipping sprays of under bosks,Kissed of thy cheek and of thy shoulder brushed,Thy rosy cheek as haughty Hera's fair,Thy snow-soft shoulder luminous as light.Oft did the shaggy hills and solitudesOf Arethusa shout and ring and reel,Reverberate and echo merrilyWith the mad chiding of thy merry hounds,Big mouthed and musical, that on the stag,Or bristling wild-boar furious grew in quest,And thou, as keen, fleet-footed and clean-limbed,Thou, thou, O goddess, with thy quivered crew,Most loveliest maids and fit to wed with gods,Rushed, swinging on the wind free limbs and lithe,Long as thy radiant locks flung free to blowAnd lighten in the wine-sharp air of morn.Ai me! their throats, their lusty, dimpled throats,That made the hills sing and the wood-ways danceAs if to Orphic strains, and gave them life!Ai me! their bosoms' deepness and the soft,Sweet, happy beauty of their delicate limbs,That stormed the forest vacancies with light,Swift daylight of their splendor and made blow,Within the glad sonorous solitudes,Old germs of flowerets a century cold.The woodland Naiad whispered by her rock;The Hamadryad, limpid-eyed and wild,Expectant rustled by her usual oak,And laughed in wonder; and mad Pan himselfReeled piping fiercely down the dingled deepsWith rollicking eye that rolled a brutish lust.And did the unwed maiden, musing whereHer father's well, beyond the god-graced hillsBubbled and babbled, hear the full, high cryOf the chaste huntress, while her dripping jarUnheeded brimmed, vowed with her chastity,And shorn gold hair to veil her virgin feet.But, ah! not when the saucy daylight swims,Filling the forests with a glamorous green,Let me behold thee, goddess! but, when dimThe slow night settles on the haunted wild,And walks in sober sark, and heatful starsShine out intensely and the echoy wasteFar off, far off, in shudders palpitatesUnto the Limnad's song unmerciful,Unmerciful and mad and bitter sweet!Then come in all thy godhead, beautiful!Thou beautiful and gentle, as thou cam'stTo lorn Endymion, who, in Lemnos once,Lone in the wizard magic of the wild,Wandered a gentle boy, unfriended, sad.It grew far off adown the stirring trees,Thy silent beauty blossoming flowerlike,Between the tree trunks and the lacing limbs,Bright in the leaves that kissed for very joyAnd drunkenness of glory thus revealed.He saw it all, the naked brow and limbs,The polished silver of thy glossy breast,Alone, uncompanied of handmaidens;Like some full, splendid fruit HesperianNot e'en for deities; thy sweet far voiceCame tinkling on his wistful ear and lispedLike leaves that cling and slip to cling again.And on such perilous beauty that must kill,The poisonous favor of thy godliness,Feasting his every sense through eyes and ears,His soul exalted waxed and amorous, —Like the high gods who quaff deep golden bowlsOf rosy nectar, – with immortal love, —And what remained, ah, what remained but death!