 | Gathered in the gloaming |  |
3
“Between two lights—the waning light of eve—
The light of God's own morning soon to break.”
The light of God's own morning soon to break.”
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TO MY FRIENDS, AROUND THE CHRISTMAS HEARTH,
Greeting and Good Cheer!
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MINIATURE ODES.
(Japanese fashion.)
The Burden of the Sea.
I
From deep mid-ocean, in the solemn night,No wandering sail abroad, no shore in sight,
What voice goes up, sonorous through the spheres,
And what its burden that God only hears?
II
The burden of the Sea! that infinite woeOf ages, endless as its ebb and flow—
Endless and hopeless—hark the mystic song!
“How long”—it seems to moan—“O Lord, how long!”
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In Heaven.
Heaven! 'tis the seeking, in God's alien places,Our loves of earth, our wept and vanished faces.
'Mid seraph songs, what strain will fill our ears?
The plaintive minor of our vale of tears.
May-time.
“Hey!” shrills the skylark, peering down belowFrom middle ether, “Earth is white with snow.”
“Joy!” pipes the linnet, on the hawthorn spray,
“Earth's white with snow, but all the snow is May.”
Marsh-Marigolds.
It frames your portrait, the marsh-marigold—We culled it, with our love; and now, I see
In spring-time, when its yellow buds unfold,
Your face look out from each, and smile at me.
Compensation.
The nightingales desert their haunts of old,Desert my garden, widowed of their song.
I preach contentment—blackcaps manifold
Flock in, at least, and warble all day long.
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Fidelity.
Do some forget? Oh, my beloved, not I!Hear me across the gulphs. God lets my cry
O'ertake thee. I am faithful. Love, I wait
Thine advent, stedfast at the Eternal Gate.
Migration.
A gathering, fluttering, flitting through the sky.Hey for the South!—On yonder mountain fork,
Falls the first snow, and hark! with clash and cry,
Swift, through the windy tumult, whirls the stork.
Spring.
Spring leaped up in the hollows. What a raceI ran with him o'er meadow and green height!
But when I paused, exulting in my pace,
Spring laughed from windy woodlands out of sight.
Illusions.
I count the dead loves of my fickle youth,But, constant grown, lift unremorseful eyes:
Nay, not so many loves . . but three, in sooth—
“Four,” moans the living love, and moaning . . dies.
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Flowers.
Flowers of the Spring, how lavishly has GodScattered your beauty over bank and sod!
Twin flowers are mine, that blossom on God's sward,
In God's own garden, but . . . the gate is barred.
On the Verge.
Nay, not so far, great Angel, not so far!Faint and more faint grows earth's receding star.
Here, on Heaven's verge, in sight of either home,
Great Angel, let me tarry . . till they come.
Philomel.
Once, his sweet strain the Eden noontides filled,Now, under midnight skies his notes are trilled.
Poor bird! perchance he takes each twinkling star
For light of Eden lattice, left ajar.
The Nile—Esne.
I paused at Esne—weird the syrens' tune.My Nile-crew slept the pillared palms among.
“On, on!” the River muttered 'neath the moon;—
“Nay, tarry, tarry yet!”—the Almehs sung.
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Sea-Anguish.
I listen to the moaning of the Sea—A moan upon each wave that shoreward rolls,
As 'twere the murmur of all griefs that be,
The confluent anguish of all stricken souls.
June Wisdom.
Enough of solemn lore! my mood rebels—I toss the tome aside—here's merry June,
The time of roses—life and love in tune—
To-day, the wisdom that wears cap and bells!
Apples.
To sage, 'neath orchard branches, it may hapTo gather wisdom from an apple's fall.
Child, which is wisest, he, or I withal,
That pile the golden apples in thy lap?
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Springlets.
I.
Over the winter eaves
The bare boughs clamber and swing—
Through a rustle of withered leaves
I hear the voice of the Spring.
The bare boughs clamber and swing—
Through a rustle of withered leaves
I hear the voice of the Spring.
Year after year departs
On pitiless, whirling wing,
But yet, in my heart of hearts,
I feel the touch of the Spring.
On pitiless, whirling wing,
But yet, in my heart of hearts,
I feel the touch of the Spring.
Who knows? when in graveyard drear,
I lie, and the throstles sing,
I may still awake with the year,
Still hear the voice of the Spring.
I lie, and the throstles sing,
I may still awake with the year,
Still hear the voice of the Spring.
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II.
Slow, horses, slow,
As through the wood we go—
We would count the stars in heaven,
Hear the grasses grow.
As through the wood we go—
We would count the stars in heaven,
Hear the grasses grow.
Watch the cloudlets few
Dappling the deep blue,
In our open palms outspread,
Catch the blessèd dew.
Dappling the deep blue,
In our open palms outspread,
Catch the blessèd dew.
Slow, horses, slow,
As through the wood we go—
We would see fair Dian rise,
With her huntress bow.
As through the wood we go—
We would see fair Dian rise,
With her huntress bow.
We would hear the breeze
Ruffling the dim trees—
Hear its sweet love-ditty set
To endless harmonies.
Ruffling the dim trees—
Hear its sweet love-ditty set
To endless harmonies.
Slow, horses, slow,
As through the wood we go—
All the beauty of the night,
We would learn and know.
As through the wood we go—
All the beauty of the night,
We would learn and know.
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III.
In Spring I make my moan—
O solemn Sycamore,
Wail, wail, my love is flown—
Thou'lt see my love no more!
O solemn Sycamore,
Wail, wail, my love is flown—
Thou'lt see my love no more!
O Sycamore above,
Hast never a thrush to sing
A little dirge for my love,
For my love that died in the Spring?
Hast never a thrush to sing
A little dirge for my love,
For my love that died in the Spring?
White May-bush, toss me down—
Toss me a shroud of snow,
Toss me a wreath and crown,
For the grave where she lies low.
Toss me a shroud of snow,
Toss me a wreath and crown,
For the grave where she lies low.
Toll, pine-tree on the height,
With thy grim, black branches toll—
Toll, toll, through day and night,
For the peace of her sweet soul!
With thy grim, black branches toll—
Toll, toll, through day and night,
For the peace of her sweet soul!
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IV.
Said the Sun to the heart of the Earth—
“Open! the year's at its turn!”
Said the Earth—“I am ready for birth—
I waken, I quicken, I yearn.”
“Open! the year's at its turn!”
Said the Earth—“I am ready for birth—
I waken, I quicken, I yearn.”
Said the Sun—“I give kiss upon kiss—
Count me the kisses that fall.”
Said the Earth—“For each kiss, this and this—
Crocus and cowslip and all.”
Count me the kisses that fall.”
Said the Earth—“For each kiss, this and this—
Crocus and cowslip and all.”
Said the Sun—“There's an ending of sleep—
Up, minions, wanton and play!”
Said the Earth—“Yes, yes, if you'll keep
The cloud and the cold away.”
Up, minions, wanton and play!”
Said the Earth—“Yes, yes, if you'll keep
The cloud and the cold away.”
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V.
I count on my fingers—It's long, very long,
For fity sweet singers
Are setting me wrong.
I count on my fingers
The joys of the Spring,
But fifty new singers
Are waiting to sing.
Fifty new splendours,
Fifty new pleasures—
I have done with my fingers
For counting my treasures,
In the green of the earth,
And the blue of the sky,
Where the first beetle crosses
The first butterfly.
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“There shall be no more Sea.”
There shall be no more Sea!—Oh, Land of Heaven,How shall we front thy glories? We, that come
From such grey skies, that hear for evermore,
The beating of the wind and of the rain
On bitter moorlands—Merciful high God!
Can we be happy by Thy great white throne,
Amongst thy singing angels? Can we tune
Our tremulous, broken voices to those rapt,
Grand Allelujahs?—Father, shall we tread,
Joyful, the causeways of Thy city of gold,
Between the walls of jasper, where no wind
Ruffles the Sabbath calm, nor any moan
Of anguish enters in—we are so used
To anguish in this world that Thou hast made!
There shall be no more tears—Thy hand shall wipe
Tears from all eyes. We hear the word . . and weep.
There shall be no more Sea—Oh! Land of Heaven,
Through all thy shimmering palms—through all thy glow
And glory of Godhead, shall we not repine?
Shall we not strain our vision, from high peaks
And crystal gorges, yearning to behold
The desolate seas of home—yearning to hear
The great wave-voices thunder once again?
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Falling.
Yes, we lived and loved together,
In God's celestial places—
In His pure, unsinning places:
With the love-light on our faces,
In the blue and balmy weather,
We lived and loved together.
In God's celestial places—
In His pure, unsinning places:
With the love-light on our faces,
In the blue and balmy weather,
We lived and loved together.
Who was it that betrayed us?
Did the Bird of Paradise,
That sat so mute above us—
That watched us and surveyed us,
With his sharp, unsleeping eyes,
As if he'd fain reprove us?
Love, was it he betrayed us?
Did the Bird of Paradise,
That sat so mute above us—
That watched us and surveyed us,
With his sharp, unsleeping eyes,
As if he'd fain reprove us?
Love, was it he betrayed us?
Or did the crystal river,
That flashed like barb from quiver,
And with angry gleam dismayed us,
When it found us sitting ever,
So close, so close together,
In God's celestial weather—
Who was it, love, betrayed us?
That flashed like barb from quiver,
And with angry gleam dismayed us,
When it found us sitting ever,
So close, so close together,
In God's celestial weather—
Who was it, love, betrayed us?
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Who was it told the warden
Of our enchanted garden,
That we lived and loved together,
In its sweet celestial weather?
Who spoke of unrepentance,
And ah! what judge passed sentence?
For now, we're falling, falling,
Thrust out from holy places,
And the levin-light appalling
Blasts the love-light from our faces:
And hoot and howl and hiss
Scoff at us from the abyss,
While God's angels of the glory
Tell, with shame, our sinning story;—
Yes, we're falling, falling ever,
Through the fierce and fiery weather—
Yes, we're falling,
Falling,
Falling,
But we're falling, love
Together.
Of our enchanted garden,
That we lived and loved together,
In its sweet celestial weather?
Who spoke of unrepentance,
And ah! what judge passed sentence?
For now, we're falling, falling,
Thrust out from holy places,
And the levin-light appalling
Blasts the love-light from our faces:
And hoot and howl and hiss
Scoff at us from the abyss,
While God's angels of the glory
Tell, with shame, our sinning story;—
Yes, we're falling, falling ever,
Through the fierce and fiery weather—
Yes, we're falling,
Falling,
Falling,
But we're falling, love
Together.
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A Last Page.
The Voice saith “Write.” The Voice saith “Write and die.”
I write and die. Faint, fainter on the page,
Line follows line, with dreary gasp and pause
Of agony. . . This book hath had the prime
And splendour of my being: it shall have
Its outflow and its ending. Make it good,
Heaven and the angels! Christ, confirm it good!
I write and die. Faint, fainter on the page,
Line follows line, with dreary gasp and pause
Of agony. . . This book hath had the prime
And splendour of my being: it shall have
Its outflow and its ending. Make it good,
Heaven and the angels! Christ, confirm it good!
Soft hands pluck at me—eyes, like tender stars,
Glimmer through deeps of dark. A sighing wind
Sweeps through my house of life and flutters wide
Its portals. . . Lo, I come! O Arms of God,
Ye everlasting Arms, uphold me here
On the dread verge! The Voice saith “Die.” . . I die.
Glimmer through deeps of dark. A sighing wind
Sweeps through my house of life and flutters wide
Its portals. . . Lo, I come! O Arms of God,
Ye everlasting Arms, uphold me here
On the dread verge! The Voice saith “Die.” . . I die.
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To M. P.
(“In excelsior.”)
“I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
To give the onset to my good advice.”
The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
To give the onset to my good advice.”
The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
I
Young singer of the spring-time and the morn—May, with that pure, pale blossom of a name—
I see thy face set to the hill of Fame,
Thy foot in act to climb. Ah, drear, forlorn,
The perilous path, with peak and precipice
And giddy ledge, and toppling fields of ice,
But over all . . the glory. Climb, for now
A far, faint radiance, from the eternal steeps
Descending, like a voiceless welcome leaps,
And touching thee, transfigures lip and brow.
Climb, singer of the Morning and the May!
Climb, strong of heart, and win thy Promised Land;
And when the prime and splendour of the day
Are thine at length . . God keep thee in His hand!
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II
Art weary, climber? Seems the summit farAs Heaven, or Death? Art still among the snows?
Hark! from yon cloud beneath thee grows and grows
A music sweet, where sweetest musics are—
The lark's—he sings for love, delicious sprite!
For love he follows thee, with circling flight,
And fain would follow still, from star to star,
To catch the spheric tune; but now he sings
His songs of home—of farm and croft and corn—
The homestead, all the dear, familiar things
He winnows up to thee, with beat of wings,
So hoping he may leave thee less forlorn.
Ah! now he falters—now his lay is done—
Art rested, climber? Courage! up and on!
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Seven.
INSCRIBED TO MISS BEATRICE CRAWHALL.
She was a child of earth—
(Twin throstles hymned her birth),
A little maid of seven.
'Twas in the winter cold,
Death's foot was on the wold;
Death opened wide the door,
With visage fierce and frore,
Where the dying lay unshriven.
(Twin throstles hymned her birth),
A little maid of seven.
'Twas in the winter cold,
Death's foot was on the wold;
Death opened wide the door,
With visage fierce and frore,
Where the dying lay unshriven.
The little maid, in fright,
Fled out into the night—
Fled fleet across the snow.
Ah! which way should she go?
What refuge could she find?
She hurried down the dell,
She crossed the croft as well,
She was met there by the Wind.
And the Wind set up a shout;
Whirling round and round about,
Till he caught the tiny waif—
Caught, and hugged, and held her safe;
Then bore her swift on high,
Eagle-winged, from earth to sky,
Where friend nor foe could find them,
And Death was left behind them.
Fled out into the night—
Fled fleet across the snow.
Ah! which way should she go?
What refuge could she find?
She hurried down the dell,
She crossed the croft as well,
She was met there by the Wind.
And the Wind set up a shout;
Whirling round and round about,
Till he caught the tiny waif—
Caught, and hugged, and held her safe;
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Eagle-winged, from earth to sky,
Where friend nor foe could find them,
And Death was left behind them.
They traversed the golden bars
Of the comets and trailing stars;
Higher they rose, and higher
Through a tangle of blossom and fire,
Till they came to a castle fine,
All agate and almondine,
With silver lamps on the walls,
And shimmering waterfalls,
That made a musical din.
And there he set her down—
'Twas the gate of God's own town,
And the little maid crept in.
Of the comets and trailing stars;
Higher they rose, and higher
Through a tangle of blossom and fire,
Till they came to a castle fine,
All agate and almondine,
With silver lamps on the walls,
And shimmering waterfalls,
That made a musical din.
And there he set her down—
'Twas the gate of God's own town,
And the little maid crept in.
And so, in the court of the King,
And down His golden street,
Is heard the patter and ring
Of little human feet.
And down His golden street,
Is heard the patter and ring
Of little human feet.
And when the saints rejoice,
And the great archangels sing,
A little human voice
Joins in their musicking.
And the great archangels sing,
A little human voice
Joins in their musicking.
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God counts them in their going,
The eternal years of heaven;
But for the child, no growing—
She is still a maid of seven.
The eternal years of heaven;
But for the child, no growing—
She is still a maid of seven.
She looks down from the wall,
And sees Death prowling round;
But his shadow cannot fall
On the bright, celestial ground.
And sees Death prowling round;
But his shadow cannot fall
On the bright, celestial ground.
She scours the lilied lea,
At sound of windy weather,
And the old mad Wind and she
Are happy and glad together.
At sound of windy weather,
And the old mad Wind and she
Are happy and glad together.
He takes up his tiny waif,
He ruffles her ruddy hair;
He hugs her and holds her safe,
But, parting, leaves her there.
He ruffles her ruddy hair;
He hugs her and holds her safe,
But, parting, leaves her there.
God counts them in their going—
The eternal years of heaven;
But for the child, no growing,
By a grace of His bestowing,
She is still a maid of seven.
The eternal years of heaven;
But for the child, no growing,
By a grace of His bestowing,
She is still a maid of seven.
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Under the Olives.
L'aubade.
“Now lithe and listen, Norine,
I sing this song for thee;
With pipe and tambourine,
Now lithe and listen, ma mie!”
I sing this song for thee;
With pipe and tambourine,
Now lithe and listen, ma mie!”
“Too well I know thy song,
Too trite that song for me;
Cease, cease, or else ere long
Thou'lt drive me into the sea.”
Too trite that song for me;
Cease, cease, or else ere long
Thou'lt drive me into the sea.”
“A foolish threat, Norine!
Thy flight would soon be o'er;
I'd follow fast, I ween,
And bring thee safe to shore.”
Thy flight would soon be o'er;
I'd follow fast, I ween,
And bring thee safe to shore.”
“Ah, yes; methinks I feel
Already thy rude grip;
But I'm a wriggling eel,
And through thy fingers slip.”
Already thy rude grip;
But I'm a wriggling eel,
And through thy fingers slip.”
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“An eel! well have thy wish!
An eel is slippery and sly;
But the fisher catches the fish,
And I am the fisher, I!”
An eel is slippery and sly;
But the fisher catches the fish,
And I am the fisher, I!”
“Then I'll be a streamlet clear,
Deep hid in a dewy dell.”—
“And I'll be its bank, my dear,
And I'll be its bed as well.”
Deep hid in a dewy dell.”—
“And I'll be its bank, my dear,
And I'll be its bed as well.”
“Or a rose, a rose am I,
O'er a garden wall that creeps.”—
“And I, the honey bee,
That in the heart of it sleeps.”
O'er a garden wall that creeps.”—
“And I, the honey bee,
That in the heart of it sleeps.”
“See, see, I'm a star so fair.”—
“And I, a cloud in the skies;
I shadow thy shining hair—
I veil thy beautiful eyes.”
“And I, a cloud in the skies;
I shadow thy shining hair—
I veil thy beautiful eyes.”
“But while thou'rt aloft in the sky,
I'll tap at the convent door;
A sorrowful nun am I,
A nun for evermore.”
I'll tap at the convent door;
A sorrowful nun am I,
A nun for evermore.”
“Go in at the convent door,
But when thou'rt called to confess,
Thou'lt find I am there before,
The priest to shrive and bless.”
But when thou'rt called to confess,
Thou'lt find I am there before,
The priest to shrive and bless.”
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“What matters, priest or churl?
For, see, my cheek grows pale;
See, I'm the poor dead girl
The sisters weep and bewail.”
For, see, my cheek grows pale;
See, I'm the poor dead girl
The sisters weep and bewail.”
“If dead, be this thy doom.
If dead, I hold thee fast.
I'm the earth, and in thy tomb
Thou'lt be mine at last—at last!”
If dead, I hold thee fast.
I'm the earth, and in thy tomb
Thou'lt be mine at last—at last!”
“Ah, now I'm touched, in sooth—
I yield—our strife is over.
There! Kiss me on the mouth—
Kiss me and be my lover!”
I yield—our strife is over.
There! Kiss me on the mouth—
Kiss me and be my lover!”
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Cecilis.
(An æsthetic intensity.)
“My Lady's pets and perts and pretties—
And losing them were worst of pities.”
Marzial's Gallery of Pigeons.
And losing them were worst of pities.”
Marzial's Gallery of Pigeons.
Cecilis was the chief angèl
Of Lilith's house in heaven,
In each hand she held a sweet weazèl;
They were a brood of seven.
One was yellow, and two were red,
And one was cramoisie,
And twain were beryl from tail to head,
And the last was vermilly.
Of Lilith's house in heaven,
In each hand she held a sweet weazèl;
They were a brood of seven.
One was yellow, and two were red,
And one was cramoisie,
And twain were beryl from tail to head,
And the last was vermilly.
In the Eden meadows the hay was down,
And the bells were ringing in Eden town.
And the bells were ringing in Eden town.
Cecilis takes her walks abroad—
Of Lilith's house she is chief angèl,
In each hand she holds a sweet weazèl,
Tethered with crystal cord.
And five little cherubs, dainty-fair,
With each in his hand a sweet weazèl,
To the plumy thickets with her repair,
And frisk and frolic in glade and dell.
Of Lilith's house she is chief angèl,
In each hand she holds a sweet weazèl,
Tethered with crystal cord.
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With each in his hand a sweet weazèl,
To the plumy thickets with her repair,
And frisk and frolic in glade and dell.
For in Eden meadows the hay is down,
And the bells are ringing in Eden town.
And the bells are ringing in Eden town.
“Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis!
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”—
From Lilith's house the cry doth come—
“What hast thou done with my sweet weazèls?
I see them leaping a-down the dells—
I see them scampering over the fells—
Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home!
Bring them home from the dusky dells,
My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazèls!”
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”—
From Lilith's house the cry doth come—
“What hast thou done with my sweet weazèls?
I see them leaping a-down the dells—
I see them scampering over the fells—
Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home!
Bring them home from the dusky dells,
My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazèls!”
For in Eden meadows the hay is down,
And the bells are ringing in Eden town.
And the bells are ringing in Eden town.
Cecilis calls from morn till night,
For her pets and pretties no more in sight—
For the sweet weazèls 'mid the rocks and fells—
“Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis!
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”
For her pets and pretties no more in sight—
For the sweet weazèls 'mid the rocks and fells—
“Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis!
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”
35
From Lilith's house the cry doth come,—
“Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home—
Bring them home from the deeps and dells,
My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazèls!”
“Cecilis, Cecilis, bring them home—
Bring them home from the deeps and dells,
My pretty cherubs, my sweet weazèls!”
For in Eden meadows the hay is down,
And the bells are tolling in Eden town.
And the bells are tolling in Eden town.
“Cecilis, Cecilis, Cecilis!
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”
Of Lilith's house she is chief angèl;—
Weeping, lamenting she wanders home,
And Lilith shudders to see her come,
To see, in her hand, no sweet weazèl.
And so that brood—that brood of seven
Weazèls, Queen Lilith's stock and store,
And her cherubs five, from the house of heaven,
Fled and were found again no more.
Cecilis, Cecilis, what is this?”
Of Lilith's house she is chief angèl;—
Weeping, lamenting she wanders home,
And Lilith shudders to see her come,
To see, in her hand, no sweet weazèl.
And so that brood—that brood of seven
Weazèls, Queen Lilith's stock and store,
And her cherubs five, from the house of heaven,
Fled and were found again no more.
While in Eden meadows the hay was down,
And the bells were tolling in Eden town.
And the bells were tolling in Eden town.
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A Witch-Agony.
Ha! weird the night—
Not a star in sight,
And over the wastes of the sky,
Rapid and black,
Like a ravening pack
Of wolves, the clouds race by.
For the winds are out,
With a whoop and a shout,
And the waters whirl on their way,
Flickering and flashing,
Surging and dashing,
Roaring and rending their prey.
Ha! weird the night, and my soul is glad,
For the winds are all mad and the waters mad,
And I am as mad as they!
Not a star in sight,
And over the wastes of the sky,
Rapid and black,
Like a ravening pack
Of wolves, the clouds race by.
For the winds are out,
With a whoop and a shout,
And the waters whirl on their way,
Flickering and flashing,
Surging and dashing,
Roaring and rending their prey.
Ha! weird the night, and my soul is glad,
For the winds are all mad and the waters mad,
And I am as mad as they!
Ho! Hurricane, set the rocks a-roll,
And topple the pine-woods low!
Ho! Thunder of heaven, grumble and growl!
Ho! Avalanche, shake the snow!
And topple the pine-woods low!
Ho! Thunder of heaven, grumble and growl!
Ho! Avalanche, shake the snow!
37
I follow your path
Of wreck and of wrath,
I laugh, I revel, I fly—
I rive the air
With a shriek of despair,
When the lightning leaps from the sky!
Oh, horror and ruin,
Oh, fierce undoing,
Downfall and doom and dismay!—
Oh, weird the night, and my soul is glad,
For the Hurricane's mad, and the Avalanche mad,
And I am as mad as they!
Of wreck and of wrath,
I laugh, I revel, I fly—
I rive the air
With a shriek of despair,
When the lightning leaps from the sky!
Oh, horror and ruin,
Oh, fierce undoing,
Downfall and doom and dismay!—
Oh, weird the night, and my soul is glad,
For the Hurricane's mad, and the Avalanche mad,
And I am as mad as they!
See the world's on fire, on fire—
On fire, above and below!
My brain's in a blaze—I rave, I craze,
I scatter sparks as I go.
I'm aflame, I'm aflame!—like a levin bolt,
I blast and wither on hill and holt—
I shrivel heather and fern—
My lips are kist by a crimson mist—
I burn, I burn, I burn!
On fire, above and below!
My brain's in a blaze—I rave, I craze,
I scatter sparks as I go.
I'm aflame, I'm aflame!—like a levin bolt,
I blast and wither on hill and holt—
I shrivel heather and fern—
My lips are kist by a crimson mist—
I burn, I burn, I burn!
Like a comet I thread the gorge alone,
With a glare and a heat of hell—
Hark, how the mountains mutter and moan,
How the wind tolls loud like a knell!
How it tolls, how it tolls,
As for passing souls,—
How it tolls like a deep death-bell!
With a glare and a heat of hell—
Hark, how the mountains mutter and moan,
How the wind tolls loud like a knell!
38
As for passing souls,—
How it tolls like a deep death-bell!
My brain's in a blaze. . . Ha! the blaze grows dim—
The fire flickers low, flickers low—
An agony wrenches spirit and limb,
A death-damp drips from my brow.
Ho! Queen, Ho! Hecate, vouchsafe me aid—
I tremble, I faint, I am sore afraid—
Ho Ashtaroth, where art thou?
I am smitten and buffeted—dragged and driven—
The fire flickers low, flickers low—
An agony wrenches spirit and limb,
A death-damp drips from my brow.
Ho! Queen, Ho! Hecate, vouchsafe me aid—
I tremble, I faint, I am sore afraid—
Ho Ashtaroth, where art thou?
Accursed of earth and accursed of heaven—
Hissed, hooted, harried—ah God! unshriven,
I drop in a bloody dew,—
And Hell-gate, horrible, opens wide—
Opens, with horrible shapes inside—
Opens, and . . . . draws me through.
| Gathered in the gloaming | |