So when the greenwood noon was growing late
The sea called softly through the waste of years,
Called to the star that still can consecrate
The holy golden haze of human tears
Which tinges every sunset with our grief
Until the perfect Paraclete appears.
Ah, the long sigh that yields the world relief
Rose and relapsed across Eternity,
Making a joy of sorrows that are brief,
As, o'er the bright enchantment of the sea,
Facing the towers of that old City of Pain
Which stands upon the shores of mystery
And frowns across the immeasurable main,
Venus among her cloudy sunset flowers
Woke; and earth melted into heaven again.
For even the City's immemorial towers
Were tinted into secret tone and time,
Like old forgotten tombs that age embowers
With muffling roses and with mossy rime
Until they seem no monument of ours,
But one more note in earth's accordant chime.
O Love, Love, Love, all dreams, desires and powers,
Were but as chords of that ineffable psalm;
And all the long blue lapse of summer hours,
And all the breathing sunset's golden balm
By that æonian sorrow were resolved
As dew into the music's infinite calm,
Through which the suns and moons and stars revolved
According to the song's divine decree,
Till Time was but a tide of intervolved