When morning lifts its fragile silver dome,
And the first eagle takes the lonely air,
Up from his dense and sombre home
The night sweeps out, a tireless wayfarer,
Leaving within the shadows deep,
The haunting mood and magic of his sleep.
And so we cannot come within this grove,
But all the quiet dusk remembrance brings
Of ancient sorrow and of hapless love,
Fate, and the dream of power, and piercing things
Traces of mystery and might,
The passion-sadness of the soul of night.
A NIGHT IN MARCH
At eve the fiery sun went forth
Flooding the clouds with ruby blood,
Up roared a war-wind from the north
And crashed at midnight through the wood.
The demons danced about the trees,
The snow slipped singing over the wold,
And ever when the wind would cease
A lynx cried out within the cold.
A spirit walked the ringing rooms,
Passing the locked and secret door,
Heavy with divers ancient dooms,
With dreams dead laden to the core.
‘Spirit, thou art too deep with woe,
I have no harbour place for thee,
Leave me to lesser griefs, and go,
Go with the great wind to the sea.’
I faltered like a frightened child,
That fears its nurse’s fairy brood,
And as I spoke, I heard the wild
Wind plunging through the shattered wood.
‘Hast thou betrayed the rest of kings,
With tragic fears and spectres wan,
My dreams are lit with purer things,
With humbler ghosts, begone, begone.’