Before him was perpetual birth
Of flowers whereof, aye, more and more,
The world begetteth a sad dearth;
And those rare balms man searcheth for,
Fair ecstasy, and the soul’s mirth:
Half grudgingly the angels bore
That one should waste on a lost earth
Things of such worth.
It may be, with a strange delight,
After an age of gazing through
That mirror of things infinite
That well nigh burns the veil of blue
Drawn down between it and our sight—
It may be, with a joy all new,
He sought the darkness and the light
Of day and night.
It may be, that, upon some wave
Which through the incense-laden skies
Scarce forced its ripple, there once clave
A thin earth-fragrance—in such wise
It smote his sense and made him crave
For that strange sweet: maybe, likewise,
The leaves their subtle perfume gave
Up from some grave:
And pleasant did it seem to heap
About the heart dim spells that lull
Profoundly between death and sleep,
To feel mid earthly soothings, dull
And sweet, upon the whole sense creep
The dream—life-long and wonderful,
That hath all souls of men to keep
Lest they should weep.
But often, when there seemed to fall
Bright shadows of half-blindness, thin,
And like fine films wrought over all
The flashing sights of Heaven within;
While that fair perishable wall
Of flesh so barred and shut him in
That scarce a silver spirit-call
Reached him at all—
O then the Earth failed not to bring,
Indeed through many a day and eve—
The strength of all her flowering
About him; nor forgot to weave,
With soft perpetual murmuring,
Her spells, that such a sweet way grieve,
And hold the heart to each fair thing,
Yea, with a sting:
And, sometimes, with strange prevalence
He felt those dim enchantments float
Most soothingly upon his sense;
While faint in memory remote,
Brought down the heart knew not from whence,
The thought of heaven within him smote—
And many a yearning did commence
Vague and intense—
Fair part of that unknown disease
Of dull material love, whereby
The luring flower-semblances
Of earthliness and death would try
To bind his heart beyond release
To each fair mortal sympathy,
That Death at length might wholly seize
Him with all these.
And, surely, on some shining bed
Of flowers in full summer’s gleam;
Or when the autumn time had shed
Its wealth of perfume and its dream
On some rich eve—no thing of dread
To all his spirit did it seem,
To dream on, feeling sweet earth spread
Over his head.
* * *