PART I.
The still white coast at Midsummer,
Beside the still white sea,
Lay low and smooth and shining
In this year eighty-three;
The sun was in the very North,
Strange to see.
The walrus ivory lay in heaps
Half-buried in the shore,
The slow stream slid o'er unknown beds
Of golden ore,
Washings of amber to the beach
Light waves bore.
Sprays of white, like foam-flowers,
Betwixt the skies and seas,
Swayed and poised the sea-gulls
In twos and threes,
Clustered like the stars men call
Pleiades.
The white marsh-flowers, the white
marsh-grass
Shimmered amid the grey
Of the marsh-water—mirrored
Over and under, they
Stood stiff and tall and slender,
All one way.
The upper spake to the lower,
"Are ye, or do ye seem?"
Out of the dim marsh-water
Glided as in a dream
The still swans down a distance
Of moonbeam.
The willow-warbler dropped from the spray
Sweet notes like a soft spring shower,
There was a twitter of building birds
In the blackthorn bower,
All broken from bare to gossamer
In an hour.
A garden white lay all the land
In wreaths of summer snow,
The heart of the year upspringing
Swift and aglow,
In pale flame and slender stalk,
Smooth and low.
The white heath and white harebell
Let their chimes rise and fall,
The delicate sheets of wood-sorrel
Unfolded all,
For a bed of bridal—
Or a pall?
Powdered with pearl, auriculas,
And beds of snowdrop sheen,
Frostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls
Of winter green:
There was no room for foot to pass
In between.
One only pink, the fragrant bloom
Of all blooms boreal,
Every face of every flower
With looks funereal
Bent to earth, and faintly
Flowering all.
Down in the closely crowded camp
Of the fresh snowdrops lay,
Fever and famine-stricken,
None his name to say,
Sick to death, a traveller
Cast away.
Brother might be of Balder
The beautiful, the bold,
By Northern stature and by limbs'
Heroic mould,
And the uncurled faint hair
Of pale gold.
Faintly the words were uttered,
Low, betwixt moan and moan:
"Here in the wilderness,
Lost and alone,
I die, and far away,
Hast thou known?
"Fame, and story of wonder,
Wind of rumour had blown
My name to thine, my feet
Up to thy throne:
What has the world been since?—
Thee alone.
"I passed and bowed before thy face,
And once thine eyes met mine;
Once I have kissed thy hand;—
Hast thou no sign?
Here with my last sad breath
I am thine."
The white hares nibbled fearlessly
Among the tender green;
The silver foxes stayed and watched,
Quick-eyed and keen;
The little ermine soft of foot
Stole between.
But the white world changed and
quickened
To a red world, the same;
For with splendour as of sunset
And sunrise flame,
From the highest heaven to the lowest,
Midnight came.
The pulsing colours of the sky
Deepened and purified;
All glorious chords of gold and red
Struck out and died;
Stilled in one heavenly harmony
Spread out wide,
In one ethereal crimson glow;
As if the Rose of Heaven
Had blossomed for one perfect hour,
Midsummer Even,
As ever in the mystic sphere
Of stars seven.
An opening blush of purest pink,
That swiftly streams and grows
As shoreward all the liquid waste
Enkindled flows,
Every ripple of all the sea
Rose on Rose.
—Through the heavens of midnight
Came a bitter cry,
Flesh and spirit breaking,
Mortal agony;
Died away unanswered
Through the sky.—
But all the dim blue South was filled
With the auroral flame,
Far out into the southward land
Without a name
That dreamed away into the dark,—
When One came,
Suddenly came stepping,
Where the roseate rift
Of the boreal blossoms
Crossed the snowy drift
In a trailing pathway,
Straight and swift.
Her robes were full and silken,
Her feet were silken-shod,
In sweeping stately silence,
Serene she trod
The starry carpets strewing
The soft sod.
The eyes of the veronica
Looked out and far away,
A golden wreath around her head
Of light curls lay,
And rippled back a shining shower,
In bright array.
About her neck the diamonds flashed
In rivers of blue fire;
But whiter her soft shoulders than
Her white attire,
And tenderer her tender arms
Than heart's desire.
She fronted full the crimson flood
Of all the Northern space,
And all the hue of all the sky
Was in her face;
The Rose of all the World has come
To this place.
A vision of white that glowed to red
With the fire at heaven, at heart,—
Nor paused nor turned,—but straight to
him
Who lay apart,
On she came, and knelt by him,—
Here thou art!
At the first hour after midnight,
As in the eider's nest,
The weary head sank soft into
A heavenly rest;
Is it a bed of roses,—
Or her breast?
At the second hour the cold limbs
Felt comfort unaware;
Flickering, a golden glow
Warmed all the air:
Is it the hearth-flame lighted,—
Or her hair?
At the third hour, round the faint heart
Failing in chill alarms,
Is it some silken coverlet
Still wraps and warms
In close and closer clasping?—
Or her arms?
At the fourth hour, to the wan lips
There came a draught divine:
Some last reviving cup poured out
Of hallowed wine,—
Or is it breath of hers
Mixed with thine?
At the fifth hour all was dimness
Alike to him and her;
One low and passionate murmur
Still moved the air;
Is it the voice of angels,—
Or her prayer?
At the sixth hour there stirred only
The soft wave on the beach;
Two were lying stilly,
Past sound or speech,
Fair and carven faces,
Each by each.