 | Phantasmagoria |  |
36
Heaven.
Though Heaven unfurl her gates of pearl
With rays that sun and star eclipse,
Though Death unroll upon my soul
The dream of the Apocalypse,
Though far descried, the star, the bride,
The city, the new Jerusalem,
Shine keen and clear with tier on tier
Of many a green and fiery gem,—
Whose icy spires shoot up like fires,
Whose golden streets are white like glass,
Where is no noon of sun or moon
But one face lights them as they pass;—
Yet shall I deem all else a dream,
The golden hills, the crystal sea,
And pass alone with eyes of stone
Among the angels seeking thee.
With rays that sun and star eclipse,
Though Death unroll upon my soul
The dream of the Apocalypse,
Though far descried, the star, the bride,
The city, the new Jerusalem,
Shine keen and clear with tier on tier
Of many a green and fiery gem,—
Whose icy spires shoot up like fires,
Whose golden streets are white like glass,
Where is no noon of sun or moon
But one face lights them as they pass;—
Yet shall I deem all else a dream,
The golden hills, the crystal sea,
And pass alone with eyes of stone
Among the angels seeking thee.
Thou art the goal of my frail soul,
Thou art my hope and my despair,
To shine as well in Heaven or Hell,
In swarthy flame or golden air.
I see thine eyes in sunset skies
Look beaming through the crimson flood,
When the haze afar round Acarnar
Burns with a blush of virgin blood,
And in the showers of golden flowers
That blaze about the dewy lawn,
And through the veil of twilight pale,
And in the stars, and in the dawn,
But most upon the hills alone
In silence of the middle night,
When all the air is keen and rare,
And all the heavens are liquid light.
Thou art my hope and my despair,
To shine as well in Heaven or Hell,
In swarthy flame or golden air.
37
Look beaming through the crimson flood,
When the haze afar round Acarnar
Burns with a blush of virgin blood,
And in the showers of golden flowers
That blaze about the dewy lawn,
And through the veil of twilight pale,
And in the stars, and in the dawn,
But most upon the hills alone
In silence of the middle night,
When all the air is keen and rare,
And all the heavens are liquid light.
Then from the graves of golden waves,
That burn upon the flery sea,
And from the shroud of glistening cloud
That swathes the dead earth tenderly,
And from the bars of shaking stars,
And pulsing of the silent night,
And mystic dreams of noiseless streams
That waver on their ghostly flight,
And wind that heaves the ivy leaves,
And dimpling of the moonlight mere,
And silver wings of water-springs,
A thin sweet voice I seem to hear—
O come to me from earth and sea
O come to me and be at rest,
A little star, a weary star,
Fled far into the golden west.
That burn upon the flery sea,
And from the shroud of glistening cloud
That swathes the dead earth tenderly,
And from the bars of shaking stars,
And pulsing of the silent night,
And mystic dreams of noiseless streams
That waver on their ghostly flight,
And wind that heaves the ivy leaves,
And dimpling of the moonlight mere,
And silver wings of water-springs,
A thin sweet voice I seem to hear—
O come to me from earth and sea
O come to me and be at rest,
A little star, a weary star,
Fled far into the golden west.
Nov. 19th, 1884.
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