THE BEAUTIFUL
I
Of moires of placid glitter
The moon is knitter,
Under dark trees, whose branches
The blue night blanches:
Upon yon stream's swift arrow
Lights lie, as narrow
As is the glance of some pale sorceress,
Spell-haunted, watching in a wilderness.
And I, who, dreaming, wander,
Seem to behold her yonder,
My beautiful dream, my bodiless loveliness.
II
Upon this water's glimmer
White sheets of shimmer
Glow outward, as if inner
Sea-castles,—thinner
Than peeléd pearl,—through curlings
And water whirlings,
Let spray the light of lucid dome and spire,
The smoldering silver of an inward fire.—
Perhaps her towers, enchanted,
Are there; on mountains planted
Of crystal:—hers! the soul of my desire!
III
Or there above the beeches,
On terraced reaches
Of rolling roses, towered
And moonbeam-bowered,
Is it her palace airy?—
Or dream of Fairy?—
Piled, full of melody and marble-white,
Its pointed casements lit with piercing light:
Wherein, all veiled and hidden,
She waits,—who long hath bidden
Me come to her,—her accoladed knight?
IV
The blue night's sweetness settles—
Like hyacinth petals,
Bowed by their weight of rain-drops—
Around me: pain drops
From off my heart, the sadness
Of life to gladness
Of beauty turns, that was not born to die;
That whispers in my soul and tells me why
I, too, was born—to render
Her worship: feel her splendor
Expand me like a rose beneath God's eye.
