Rest here, for day is hot to follow you,
Rest here until the morning star has come,
Until is risen aloft dawn’s rosy dome,
Based deep on buried crimson into blue,
And morn’s desire
Has made the fragile cobweb drenched with dew
A net of opals veiled with dreamy fire.
SONG
I have done,
Put by the lute;
Songs and singing soon are over,
Soon as airy shades that hover
Up above the purple clover—
I have done, put by the lute.
Once I sang as early thrushes
Sing about the dewy bushes,
Now I’m mute;
I am like a weary linnet,
For my throat has no song in it,
I have had my singing minute.
I have done,
Put by the lute.
THE MAGIC HOUSE
In her chamber, wheresoe’er
Time shall build the walls of it,
Melodies shall minister,
Mellow sounds shall flit
Through a dusk of musk and myrrh.
Lingering in the spaces vague,
Like the breath within a flute,
Winds shall move along the stair;
When she walketh mute
Music meet shall greet her there.
Time shall make a truce with Time,
All the languid dials tell
Irised hours of gossamer,
Eve perpetual
Shall the night or light defer.
From her casement she shall see
Down a valley wild and dim,
Swart with woods of pine and fir;
Shall the sunsets swim
Red with untold gold to her.