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THE HALL OF DARKNESS |
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|
 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
209
THE HALL OF DARKNESS
Within her veins it beats
And burns within her brain,
As year by year more sad and sear
Grow barren hill and plain.
And burns within her brain,
As year by year more sad and sear
Grow barren hill and plain.
Ah! over young is she
Who bears within her breast
More pain and woe than women know,
And all of love's unrest.
Who bears within her breast
More pain and woe than women know,
And all of love's unrest.
Seven towers of shaggy rock
Rise black to ragged skies,
From out a fen where bones of men
Stare with their empty eyes.
Rise black to ragged skies,
From out a fen where bones of men
Stare with their empty eyes.
Eternal sunset pours,
Around its warlock towers,—
From out its urn of beams that burn,—
Long fire-cloudy flowers.
Around its warlock towers,—
From out its urn of beams that burn,—
Long fire-cloudy flowers.
210
On bat-like turrets high,
And owlet battlements,
Huge condors dream and vultures scream
As at the battle's scents.
And owlet battlements,
Huge condors dream and vultures scream
As at the battle's scents.
Within the banquet-hall,
A bride, rich-robed and pale,
She sits at board with men o' the sword
Cased all in silver mail.
A bride, rich-robed and pale,
She sits at board with men o' the sword
Cased all in silver mail.
Their visors barred are drawn;
Their hands are gauntletéd;
And one, behold! in glittering gold
Sits at the table's head.
Their hands are gauntletéd;
And one, behold! in glittering gold
Sits at the table's head.
Wild music echoes through
The hollow-sounding air—
It seems, at least, a wedding feast
With richness everywhere.
The hollow-sounding air—
It seems, at least, a wedding feast
With richness everywhere.
Wild music oozes from
The ceiling, groined with white
Pure pearl, and floors, like mythic shores,
Of limpid chrysolite.
The ceiling, groined with white
Pure pearl, and floors, like mythic shores,
Of limpid chrysolite.
Silent they sit at feast,
And she, whom he sits near,—
He in gold mail,—why is she pale,
As one with grief and fear?
And she, whom he sits near,—
211
As one with grief and fear?
The heav'ns grow slaughter-red,
Grow blood-red west and east;
Seven casements high that frame the sky
Flare on the blood-red feast.
Grow blood-red west and east;
Seven casements high that frame the sky
Flare on the blood-red feast.
Gaunt torches tall they seem,
Red revel-torches seven;—
And then, behold! the hour is tolled;
A great bell strikes eleven.
Red revel-torches seven;—
And then, behold! the hour is tolled;
A great bell strikes eleven.
Silence.—The light, that makes
Each plate a splash of fire,—
Gold-splintered,—dims; and softer swims
The music of each lyre.
Each plate a splash of fire,—
Gold-splintered,—dims; and softer swims
The music of each lyre.
Grave Silence, like a king,
At that strange feast has place;
Grave Silence still as God's own will
Within the deeps of space.
At that strange feast has place;
Grave Silence still as God's own will
Within the deeps of space.
She leans to him in gold,
And to him seems to say—
“The night grows late, my love! Why wait?
Ah God! would it were day!
And to him seems to say—
“The night grows late, my love! Why wait?
Ah God! would it were day!
212
“Would it were day, ah God!
How long is it till dawn?—
Why wear this mask?—Undo thy casque!
The midnight hour comes on!”
How long is it till dawn?—
Why wear this mask?—Undo thy casque!
The midnight hour comes on!”
Silent he sits, severe;
Then one sonorous tower,
Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,
Tolls slow the midnight hour.
Then one sonorous tower,
Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,
Tolls slow the midnight hour.
Three strokes; the knights arise,
The silence from them flung,
Like waves that mock some hoarse sea-rock,
Wild laughter moves each tongue.
The silence from them flung,
Like waves that mock some hoarse sea-rock,
Wild laughter moves each tongue.
Six strokes; and wailing out
The music hoots away;
The fiery glimmer of heaven grows dimmer,
The red turns ghostly gray.
The music hoots away;
The fiery glimmer of heaven grows dimmer,
The red turns ghostly gray.
Nine strokes; and, dropping mold,
The crumbling Hall is lead;
The plate is rust; the feast is dust;
The banqueters are dead.
The crumbling Hall is lead;
The plate is rust; the feast is dust;
The banqueters are dead.
Twelve strokes pound out and roll;
The vast Hall heaves and waves
With things that crawl from floor and wall—
Spawn of a thousand graves.
The vast Hall heaves and waves
213
Spawn of a thousand graves.
Then rattling in the night
His golden visor slips—
In rotting mail a death's-head pale
Kisses her loathing lips.
His golden visor slips—
In rotting mail a death's-head pale
Kisses her loathing lips.
Then over all a voice
Crying above the strife—
“Death is the Groom: this Hall, the Tomb:
The Bride, behold, is Life!”
Crying above the strife—
“Death is the Groom: this Hall, the Tomb:
The Bride, behold, is Life!”
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |