 | Phantasmagoria |  |
21
The Two Rivers.
Far amid the rainbow-tinted mountains,
In the hollow of a blue ravine,
From a grot of jasper two bright fountains
Gush into a basin beryl-green.
From a Dragon's mouth, in jets of amber,
Issues forth the moonlight-coloured flood.
All about bright passion-blossoms clamber,
Curling, red as blood.
In the hollow of a blue ravine,
From a grot of jasper two bright fountains
Gush into a basin beryl-green.
From a Dragon's mouth, in jets of amber,
Issues forth the moonlight-coloured flood.
All about bright passion-blossoms clamber,
Curling, red as blood.
One is lucent as a tawny jewel,
One is turbid as with dust of gold,
But the light of both is keen and cruel
As of wine-waves in a goblet rolled,
When the gold shines through, and o'er it shiver
Foamy bells of froth that meet in strife—
Such are Love's insatiable river,
And the well of Life.
One is turbid as with dust of gold,
But the light of both is keen and cruel
As of wine-waves in a goblet rolled,
When the gold shines through, and o'er it shiver
Foamy bells of froth that meet in strife—
Such are Love's insatiable river,
And the well of Life.
He who, faint and sore of foot with climbing,
On that vale emerges, blind with tears,
Marvels at the sweetness of the chiming
Of the waters' music in his ears.
Eagerly he stoops across the verges
Of the beryl basin, prone to drain
All the sweetness of the mineral surges
Maddening to the brain.
On that vale emerges, blind with tears,
Marvels at the sweetness of the chiming
Of the waters' music in his ears.
Eagerly he stoops across the verges
Of the beryl basin, prone to drain
All the sweetness of the mineral surges
Maddening to the brain.
22
Then his heart, that long had learnt to languish
In a dull contentment, catches first
The divine intolerable anguish
Of the love of living, and the thirst.
Never shall he fill his breast with foison,
Ne'er be sated, till he find with years
That the one jet bubbles up with poison
And the other tears.
In a dull contentment, catches first
The divine intolerable anguish
Of the love of living, and the thirst.
Never shall he fill his breast with foison,
Ne'er be sated, till he find with years
That the one jet bubbles up with poison
And the other tears.
Feb. 9th 1886.
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