Till last, in fairer shape she stands
Where lotus-scented waters glide,
A Theban Priestess, dusky-eyed,
Barefooted on the golden sands;
Or, prostrate, in the Temple-halls,
When Spirits wake, and mortals sleep,
She hears what mighty Voices sweep
Like winds along the columned walls.
A Princess then beneath the palms
Which wave o'er Afric's burning plains,
The blood of Afric in thy veins,
A golden circlet on thine arms.
By sacred Ganges' sultry tide,
With dreamy gaze and clasped hands
Thou walkst a Seeress in the lands
Where holy Buddha lived and died.
Anon, a sea-bleached mountain cave
Makes shelter for thee, grave and wan,
Thou solemn, solitary Man,
Who, nightly, by the star-lit wave
Invokest with illumined eyes
The steadfast Lords who rule and wait
Beyond the heavens and Time and fate,
Until the perfect Dawn shall rise,
And oracles, through ages dumb,
Shall wake, and holy forms shall shine
On mountain peaks in light divine,
When mortals bid God's kingdom come
So turns the wheel of thy [keen] soul;
From birth to birth her ruling stars,
Swift Mercury and fiery Mars,
In ever changing orbits roll!
—Paris, May, 1880
Fragment