The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5)

AT HER GRAVE

I

With your eyes of April blue,And your mouthLike a May-rose, fresh with dew,Of the South,With your hair as golden sweetAs the ripples of ripe wheat,How you make my old heart beat!—Who are you?

II

There is something that I knew,Long ago,In your voice that thrills me throughWith the glowOf remembered happiness;And your look—I can not guessWhat it is there, nor express.—Who are you?

III

You are like her! even the hueOf her eyes!—It is strange you stop here, too,Where she lies!—Where she lies who was, you see,All to me a girl could be—But no wife.—You stare at me.—Who are you?

IV

Well, I left her. That ’s not new—God above!Men, who live so, often do.’T is n’t love.So I broke her heart, they say,—And been wretched since that day:And our child—don’t turn away!—Who are you?

A CONFESSION

These are the facts:—I was to blame.I brought her here and wrought her shame.She came with me all trustingly.Lovely and innocent her face:And in her perfect form, the graceOf purity and modesty.I think I loved her then: would doteOn her ambrosial breast and throat,Young as a wildflower’s tenderness:Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.Three months passed by; three moons of fire;When in me sickened all desire:And in its place a devil,—whoFilled all my soul with deep disgust,And on the victim of my lustTurned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.One night, when by my side she slept,I rose: and leaning, while I keptThe dagger hid, I kissed her hairAnd mouth: and, when she smiled asleep,Into her heart I drove it deep—And left her dead, still smiling there.

LAST DAYS

Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And heartache of the autumn sky!Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in sunny gold—But Death hath ta’en that gem away,And left me poor and old.The heartbreak of the hills is mine,Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf,Of wind that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief.The sorrow of the loveless skies’“Farewells” are wild as those I saidWhen last I kissed my child’s blue eyesAnd lips, ice-dumb and dead.

AT TWILIGHT

Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes;Once more I feel her voice’s witcheryWithin my heart unfountain tears and sighs,And fill the soul of me.Once more she bends a silent face above;Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shakeMy life, unbinding long-imprisoned love,Bidding my lost dreams wake.Once more I see her serious smile; and touchOnce more the lips of her whose kisses say—“The night was long, and thou hast suffered much:At last, dear heart, ’t is day!”

DAY AND NIGHT

They said to me, “The days are not so far offWhen she will come, who gave her heart to thee;”And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, offHer long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea.And I recall that night, which gave its soul ofCalm beauty to the earth, when she did giveHer love’s white starlight to the rugged whole ofMy barren life and bade me see and live.The days go by, and my sick soul recalls butThe revelation of that evening sky:The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,—butOf whiter shadow,—where hearts break and die.The day is error’s: it can but deceive usWith shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse.The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave usThe thoughts of God, the visible universe.

THREE BIRDS

A red bird sang upon the boughWhen wind-flowers nodded in the dew:My spring of bird and flower wast thou,O tried and true!A brown bird warbled on the wingWhen poppy buds were hearts of heat:I wooed thee with a golden ring,O sad and sweet!A black-bird twittered in the mistWhen nightshade blooms were filled with frost:The leaves upon thy grave are whist,O loved and lost!

UNREQUITED

Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

THE HEART’S DESIRE

God made her body out of foam and flowers,And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent;Then called two planets from their heavenly towers,And in her face, divinely eloquent,Gave them a firmament.God made her heart of rosy ice and fire,Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns;And of a starbeam and a moth’s desireHe made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns,And all my being yearns.So is my life a prisoner unto passion,Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word;So in the cage her loveliness doth fashionIs love endungeoned, like a golden birdThat sings but is not heard.Could it but once convince her with beseeching!But once compel her as the sun the south!Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching,Upon the red carnation of her mouthDew its eternal drouth!Then might I rise victorious over sadness,O’er fate and change, and, with but little care,Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness,Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair,And die, or do and dare.

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

I

Let me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.—In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!

II

Let me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men’s eyesBondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.—In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!

III

Let me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!—Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!

“THIS IS THE FACE OF HER”

This is the face of herI’ve dreamed of longThat in my heart I bear:This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,—Deep as a Nereid’s,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks of night:Only the gods can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of light.The cheeks, like rosy moons;The lips of fire:Love sighs no sweeter tunesUnder romantic moonsThan these suspire.Loved lips and eyes and hair!Look, this is she!She, who sits smiling there,Throned in my heart’s despair,Never for me!

INDIFFERENCE

She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,And his, who loves her so.

GHOST WEATHER

Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hissThrough writhing lindens torn in two—The dead’s own days are days like this!Yea; let me sit and be with you.Here in your willow chair, whose seatSpreads purple plush.—Hark! how the gustsSeem moaning voices that repeatSome grief here; in this room, where dustsMake dim each ornament and chair;This locked-in memory where you died:Since angels stood here, saintly fearGuards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.Through this dim light bend your dim face;Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam,A soft, dim cloudiness of lace,Stand near me while I dream, I dream.

THE FOREST POOL

One memory persuades me whenDusk’s lonely star burns overhead,To take the gray path through the glen—That finds the forest pool, made redWith sunset—and forget again,Forget that she is dead.Once more I look into the spring,That on one rock a finger whiteOf foam that beckons still doth bring—Some moon-wan spirit of the night,Who dwells within its murmuring,Her life the sad moonlight.I see the red dusk touch it hereWith fire like a blade of blood;One star reflected, white and clear,Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud;While all my grief stands very near,Pale in the solitude.And then, behold, while yet the moonHangs—silver as a twisted hornBlown out of Elfland—sweet with June,White in white clusters of the thorn,Slow, in the water as a tune,An image pale is born:That has her throat of frost; her lips—Her mouth where God’s anointment lies;Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tipsBreak, like the starlight from dark skies;Her hair, a hazel heap that slips;Her throat and hair and eyes.And then I stoop; the water kissed,The face fades from me into air;And in the pool’s dark amethystMy own pale face returns my stare:Then night and mist—and in the mistOne dead leaf drifting there.

AT SUNSET

Into the sunset’s turquoise margeThe moon dips, like a pearly bargeEnchantment sails through magic seas,To fairyland Hesperides,Over the hills and away.Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down;Her apron filled with stars she stands.And one or two slip from her handsOver the hills and away.Above the wood’s black caldron bendsThe witch-faced Night and, muttering, blendsThe dew and heat, whose bubbles makeThe mist and musk that haunt the brakeOver the hills and away.Oh, come with me, and let us goBeyond the sunset lying low,Beyond the twilight and the night,Into Love’s kingdom of long light,Over the hills and away.

DEAD AND GONE

Can you tell me how he rests,Flowers, growing o’er him there?His a right warm heart, my sweets,—So, cover it with care.Can you tell me how he liesSuch nights out in the cold,O cricket, with your plaintive call,O glow-worm, with your gold?If my eyes are sorrowful,Well may they weep, I trow,—Since his dead eyes gazed into them,They have been sad enow.If my heart make moan and ache,Well may it break, I’m sure—For his dead love is more, ah me!More than it can endure.

ONE NIGHT

I

A night of rain. The wind is out.And I had wished it otherwise:A calm, still night; no scudding skies;Or, in the scud, above the rout,The moon; by whose pale light my eyesMight meet her eyes; the smile that triesTo come but will not; lips, that poutWith seeming anger, all surmise,When I have said “I love your lies”—Lips I shall kiss before she dies.

II

What force this wind has! As it runsAround each unprotecting treeIt seems some beast; and now I seeIts form, its eyes; a woman’s once:—Dark eyes! that blaze as lionlyAs some bayed beast’s, that will not fleeThe pine-knots and derides the guns.—Or is it but the thought in me!The thought of that which is to be,The deed, that rises shadowy?

III

And now the trees and whipping rainConfuse them.... I must drive it hence,The memory of her eyes! the tenseWild look within them of hard pain!…Yet she must die—with every senseStrung to beholding knowledge, whenceMy heart shall be made whole again.—Here I will wait where night is dense.Soon she will come, like Innocence,Thinking her youth is her defense.

IV

And when she leaves,—and none perceives,—The old gray manor, where the eightOld locusts, (twisted shadows), freightWith mossy murmurings its eaves,One moment at the iron gateShe ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate,Come rustling through the autumn leaves.And I will take both hands and sateMy mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”;She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....

V

O passion of past vows, reviveImagination, and renewThe ardor of love’s language youFor love’s rose-altar kept alive!Repeat the oaths that rang with dewAnd starlight!—Tell her she is trueAs beautiful.—I will contriveTo make her think I have no clueTo all her falseness. I will wooAs once I wooed before I knew.

VI

And we will walk against the wind;The shuffling leaves about our feet;Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete,Because one woman so hath sinnedAnd never suffered. She shall meetNo murder in my eyes; no heatOf fate in holding hand that ’s pinnedTo hers. To make her trust to beat,I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,—like wheatOf affluent summer,—saying “Sweet.”

VII

And should I bungle in this thing,This purpose that must see her deadTo cure this fever in my head?—What other thing is there to bringSoul satisfaction? when is shedNo real blood, save what makes redThe baulked intention?—I will flingThe mask aside!—But hate hath ledDesire too far now to be fedWith failure. I have naught to dread.

VIII

When we have reached the precipiceThat thwarts the battling of the sea,And wallows out great rocks, that kneeThe giant foam with roar and hiss,I will not cease to coax and beThe anxious lover. Trusting sheWill not suspect my farewell kissUntil it turns a curse, and weSway for an instant totteringly,And she has shrieked some prayer at me.

IX

O let me see wild terror thereUpon her face! the wilder frownOf crime’s apprisal, and renownOf my life’s injury, that bareThis horror with its bloody crown!—No pity, God! For, if her gown,Suspending looseness of her hair,Delay the plunge … the night is brown …My heel must crush her white face down,And Hell and Heaven see her drown.

THE PARTING

She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossedTheir spider-shadows round her; and the breeze,Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost,And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees,Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze.Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore.Some stars made misty blotches in the sky.And all the wretched willows on the shoreLooked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye.She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh.She heard his skiff grind on the river rocksWhistling he came into the shadow madeBy the great tree. He kissed her on her locks;And round her form his eager arms were laid.Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed.And then she spoke, while still his greeting kissStung in her hair. She did not dare to liftHer face to his; her anguished eyes to hisWhile tears smote crystal in her throat. One riftOf weakness humored might set all adrift.Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard.And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brainRemembered he had said no farewell word;And swift emotion swept her; and againLeft her as silent as a carven pain....She, in the old sad farm-house, wearilyResumed the drudgery of her common lot,Regret remembering.—’Midst old vices, he,Who would have trod on, and somehow did not,The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW

Though the panther’s footprints show,And the wild-cat’s, in the snow,You will never find a traceOf the footsteps of a certainMaiden with a paler faceThan the drifts that fill and curtainHillside, valley, and the wood,Where the hunter’s wigwam stoodIn the winter solitude.What white beast hath grown the furFor the whiter limbs of her?—Raiment of the frost and iceTo her supple beauty fitting;Wampum strouds, as white as rice,Of the frost’s fantastic knitting,Wrap her form and face complete;Glove her hands with ice; her feetMoccasin with beaded sleet.’Though he knew she made a hauntOf the dell, it did not daunt:Where the hoar-frost mailed each treeIn soft, phantom alabaster,And hung ghosts of bud and beeOn each autumn-withered aster;By the frozen waterfall,There she stood, beneath its wall,In the ice-sheathed chaparral.Where the beech-tree and the larchBuilt a white triumphal archFor the Winter, marching downWith his icy-armored leaders;Where each hemlock had a crown,And pale diadems the cedars;Where the long icicle shone,There he saw her, standing lone,Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.And she led him many a mileWith her hand-wave and her smile,And the printless swiftness ofFeet of frost, and snowy flutterOf her raiment; now above,Now below, the boughs of utterWinter whiteness. Led him onTill the dawn and day were gone,And the evening star hung wan....Hunters found him dead, they tell,In the winter-wasted dell,With his quiver and his bow,Where the cascade ran a rafter,White, of crystal and of snow;Where he listened to her laughter,Promises, that were as farAs the secrets of a star,And her love that naught could mar.And her countenance is thisStamped on his: and this her kiss,Haunting still his mouth and eyes,Colder than the cold December:This her passion, that defiesAll control, the stars rememberFilled him, killed him: this is sheClinging to him, neck and knee,Where his limbs sank wearily.

THE SPIRIT OF THE STAR

(Love Spiritual)

“This union of the human soul with the divine æthereal substance of the universe, is the ancient doctrine of Pythagoras and Plato.”—Divine Legation.

There is love for love: the heavenTeems with possibilities:And, when love is purely given,Love returns from where none sees:And such love becomes a ladderReaching heavenward, from the sadderNight of Earth; from out the drivenDarkness of its miseries.There is love for love: and Beauty,From her star above the Earth,Smiles, and straight each cloud of sootyNight takes on celestial worth:And, like some white flower unfolding,Love is born; and softly holdingUp its face, as if in duty,Grows to that which gave it birth.Earth and Heaven are prolificOf love’s wonders: and the skyTeems with spirits, fair, terrific,Who, if loved, shall never die:Dæmons, haggard as their mountains;Naiads, sparkling as their fountains;Sylphids of the winds, pacificAs the stars they tremble by....Such was I; who long had waitedFor the everlasting sleep:Where, around me, worlds dilated,Waned or waxed within the deep:Where, beneath my star, a planetWhirled and shone, like glowing granite,While around it ne’er abatedOne white satellite its sweep.I was sad: my beauty wearied,Useless as a scentless budFading ere it blooms. The serriedMists of worlds, as red as blood,Streamed beneath me. And the starryFirmament above bent, barryWith the wild auroras, ferriedOf the meteors’ sisterhood.Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flame

The Spirit of the Star

I was loveless with a yearningAfter love that never came;All my astral being burningTowards that world without a name,World I knew not: till, with splendorOf compulsion that was tender,Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flame.So I left my star, whose lancesPierced with arrowy gold the heatOf heaven’s hyacinth; its glancesSaddened me. No more to meet,Then I left my star; and, beatingDownward, heard it still repeatingFar farewells; and through the trancesOf dark space its face looked sweet.Passed your moon: a melancholyDisc at first; then, vast and sharp,Lo, a world, all white and holy!Where, upon the crystal scarpOf a mountain,—like a storyOf high Heaven revealed in glory,—Gradual, as if music slowlyBuilt it, rolling from a harp,—Rose a city: cloudy nacreWere its walls, that towered roundAcre upon arch-piled acreOf a marble-terraced ground:Caryatids alternatedWith Atlantes, sculpture-weighted:And its gates—some god the maker—Rhombs of symboled diamond.In the white light glittered swimmingDomes of dazzle: swirl on swirl,Temples lifted columns, brimmingCrystal flame, that seemed to whirl:Battlemented moonstone darkled;Palaces, pale-pillared, sparkled,Cloudy opal: and, far dimming,Aqueducts of ghostly pearl.Streaming steeples shone, of dædalEmblem; each an obelisk:Minarets, each one a needle,Balancing a bubble-disc;Some of diamond, like a blisterFrozen; some of topaz-glister,Vinous; in whose blinding middleBlazed an orb of burning bisque.And I saw where, silvery slanted,A vast pyramidic heapRose of spar; whereon was plantedThe acropolis of Sleep,—God of these:—that, looming higher,Wrought of seeming ice and fire,Where pale rainbow-colors panted,Gleamed above the lunar deep.Robed in white simarre and chiton,Visions filled its every square,Moving like a finer light onLight: and in the glory thereMusic rang and golden laughter;And before each shape, and after,Radiance went, that shadowed white, onTemple and on palace stair.Though they called me, I descendedEarthward. For great longing drewMe and, drawing me, was blendedWith your world. I never knewIt was Earth, until,—forsakingHeaven,—I beheld it taking,—A great azure sphere,—its splendidWay along the singing blue.And when night came, here, above you,—Sleeping by your folded sheepOn the hills,—I stooped: whereof youDreamed: I kissed you in your sleep:I, your destiny, who wrought itSo you knew me: you, who thought itNot so strange that I should love you,I a spirit of the deep.’Twas your love that sought and found me,Drew me from that star-life sad;Won my soul to yours and bound meWith such love as none hath had:I am she, you may remember,That fair star that seemed an emberO’er you, that you loved.—Around meWrap your arms now and be glad.Look above: what seems a petal,Burning, of a rose; that farPoint of radiance, bright as metal,Fiery silver, is your star!Look above you: rise unto it.Let it lead you now who drew itDown to Earth, where shadows settle!—On that star no shadows are!

THE SPIRIT OF THE VAN

(Love Ideal)

“Among the mountains of Carmarthen, lies a beautiful and romantic piece of water, named The Van Pools. Tradition relates, that after midnight, on New Year’s Eve, there appears on this lake a being named The Spirit of the Van. She is dressed in a white robe, bound by a golden girdle; her hair is long and golden; her face is pale and melancholy.”—Keightley’s “Fairy Mythology.”

Midsummer-night; the Van. Through night’s wan noon,Wading the storm-scud of an eve of storm,Pale o’er Carmarthen’s peaks the mounting moon.—Wilds of Carmarthen! sombre heights, that swarmGirdling this water, as old giants mightCrouch, guarding some enchanted gem of charm,—Wilds of Carmarthen, that for me each nightReëcho prayers and pleadings,—all the yearUnanswered,—made to listening waters white!Mountains, behold me yet again! Bend near!Behold her lover! hers, that shape of snow,Who dwells amid these pools; who will not hearMy heart’s wild pleading, calling loud, now low,Unhappy, to her, ’mid the lonely hills.Whene’er a ripple trembles into glow,Where yeasty moonshine scuds the foam, straight thrillsHeart’s expectation through my veins, and highWith “she!” each pulse the exultation fills.But she ’tis never. Once … and then! would I,Would I had perished, so beholding!—World,’Twas you, O world, who would not let me die!Once I beheld her!—If some fiend had curledStiff talons in my hair, and, twisting tight,Had raised me high, then into Hell had hurled;Fresh from that vision of her beauty white,With Heaven in my soul, I, unamerced,Shackled with tortures, yet might mock Hell’s spite.Immortal memory, quench in me this thirst!—O starlike vision, that a moment cloveMy sight, and then for ever left me curst!Oh, make me mad with love, with all thy love!Me, me, who seek thee ’mid these wilds when gloomStorms or drip gold the sibylline stars above!—Let thy high coming in a flash consumeThe light of all the stars! and make me mad,Mad with love’s madness! fill me with sweet doom!Sleep will I not now, for my soul is sad:For, should I sleep, there might come other dreams,—Sadder than thou art,—in thy beauty cladAnd all thy tyranny. To me it seemsBetter to wake here, underneath this pine,Until thy face upon my vision gleams.—Thou, who art wrought of elements divine,And I of crasser clay, clay that will think,“Since I am hers, why should she not be mine?”Again, its usual phantom, on the brinkOf thy lone lake, I ask thee: “Must I yearnForever, haunted of that vision’s wink?”—When, glassing out great circles, which did urnSome intense essence of interior light,(As clouds, that clothe the moon, unbinding, burn,Riven, erupt her orb, triumphant white,)I saw, midmost the Van, a feathering fireDilating ivory-wan.—Expectant nightTiptoed attentive, fearful to suspire.—Wherefrom arose—what white divinity?What godhead sensed with glory and desire?Born for the moment for the eyes of me!Then re-absorbed into the brassy gloomOf whispering waves that sighed their ecstasy.Thou! in whose path harmonious colors bloom,Pale pearl and lilac, asphodel and rose,—Like many flow’rs auroral of perfume,—Thou leftst me thus, to marvel as who knowsHe is not dead and yet it seems he is,Since all his soul with spirit-rapture glows.—O sylph-like brow! lips like an angel’s kiss!High immortality! whose face was suchAs starlight in a lily’s loveliness!…The gold that bound thee seemed too base to clutchThy chastity, though clear as golden gumThat almugs sweat, and fragrance to the touch!Thy hair—not hair!—seemed rays, like those that comeStrained through the bubble of a chrysolite.—No word I said: thy beauty struck me dumb.Thy face, that is upon my soul’s quick sightEternal seared, hath made of me a shade,A wandering shadow of the day and night:A seeker ’mid the hoary hills for aid,The sole society of my sick heart, whoShuns all companionship of man and maid:Who, comrade of the mountain blossoms blue,And intimate of old trees, goes dreaming they,—As in that legendary world that drewOracles from lips in oaks—, may sometime sayProphetic precepts to it: how were wonA spirit loved to love a mortal;—yea,In vain.—But one day, frog-like in the sun,Beside a cave,—the nightshade vines made rankAnd hairy henbane, where huge spiders spun,—Wrinkled as Magic, I a grizzled, lank,Squat something startled, naught save skin and hair;With eyes wherein dwelt demons; flames, that shrankAnd grew;—familiars, who fixed me with glareAs, raising claw-like hands when I drew near,Frog-like he croaked, “Thou fool! go seek her there!Woo her with thy heart’s actions! making clearThy soul’s white passage for her coming feet!—In! in! thou fool! plunge in! Fear naught but fear!”Yet I have waited many weeks. Repeat.Acts of the heart with passionate offeringOf love whose anguish makes it seven times sweet.Still all in vain, in vain. To-night I bringMy self alone; my soul unfearing, see!My soul unto thee!—Shall the clay still clingClogging fulfillment? and achievement beBalked still by flesh?—no! let me in—to die,Haply; or, for a moment’s mystery,Gaze in thine eyes: one splendid instant lieIn thy white arms and bosom; and thy kiss,My elemental immortality!—Part of thy breathing waves, to laugh or hissIn foam; or winds, that rock the awful deeps,Or build with song vast temples for thy bliss.Wherein, responsive as thy white hand sweepsThe chords of some sad shell, I’ll dream and roamThrough glaucous chambers where the green day sleeps.Dead not with death, what secrets hath thy homeNot mine then, epoched in exultant foam?…Deeper, down deeper! yea, at last I come!