 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
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THE GHOST FLOWER
(The Indian Pipe)
What freak of faery, fancy of the night,
Compelled you hither, drowsy with the dew?
Taking my heart with weirdness, like the flight
Of moth or owlet through the noonday blue,
O flower of phantoms,—slender as a light
That flits at haunted casements, pale of hue,—
A finger white
Lifting, mysterious, on the startled view.
Compelled you hither, drowsy with the dew?
Taking my heart with weirdness, like the flight
Of moth or owlet through the noonday blue,
O flower of phantoms,—slender as a light
That flits at haunted casements, pale of hue,—
A finger white
Lifting, mysterious, on the startled view.
Decay and dampness mothered you, while death
Sat by and glowered under threatening skies,
Breathing you full of his autumnal breath,
Staring you white with winter of his eyes:
O type of everything which perisheth,
Corruption hidden 'neath a fair disguise,
Whose Beauty saith,
“Behold a symbol for the worldly wise.”
Sat by and glowered under threatening skies,
Breathing you full of his autumnal breath,
Staring you white with winter of his eyes:
O type of everything which perisheth,
Corruption hidden 'neath a fair disguise,
Whose Beauty saith,
“Behold a symbol for the worldly wise.”
O flower of death, so like, yet not a flower!
O form of fungus, are you kin to those?
Did God conceive you in some lonely hour,
Uncertain yet of what He did propose?
A half-formed thought, abandoned; without dower
Of fragrance; whence grew out the perfect rose
Of Eden's bower,—
Whose counterpart in every garden grows.
O form of fungus, are you kin to those?
Did God conceive you in some lonely hour,
Uncertain yet of what He did propose?
A half-formed thought, abandoned; without dower
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Of Eden's bower,—
Whose counterpart in every garden grows.
A semblance merely, flung forgotten here,
Eidolon-like, disclaimed of all your kin,
Pointing a phantom finger at the Year,
Or with a twisted hand, as white as Sin,
Clutching at silence, who a hollow ear
Leans to the earth on which the rain beats thin,
While shapes of fear
And shadows wander, dream-wise, out and in.
Eidolon-like, disclaimed of all your kin,
Pointing a phantom finger at the Year,
Or with a twisted hand, as white as Sin,
Clutching at silence, who a hollow ear
Leans to the earth on which the rain beats thin,
While shapes of fear
And shadows wander, dream-wise, out and in.
Dreams from the world of gnomes, where mysteries dwell,
You conjure forth:—I seem to see them stand,
Fantastic round you: up and down the dell
Their vague enchantments move, pale hand in hand.—
Would that I too such magic could compel,
And, so admitted of Night's Erl-King band,
Could break the spell
That bars the gateway into Elfinland.
You conjure forth:—I seem to see them stand,
Fantastic round you: up and down the dell
Their vague enchantments move, pale hand in hand.—
Would that I too such magic could compel,
And, so admitted of Night's Erl-King band,
Could break the spell
That bars the gateway into Elfinland.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |