Ay, two men pace; and one is light
Of step, but still his brow is dark
His eyes are as a kindled spark
That burns beneath the brow of night!
And still they pace. The stars are red,
The tombs are white as frosted snow;
The silence is as if the dead
Did pace in couples, to and fro.
III.
The azure curtain of God’s house
Draws back, and hangs star-pinned to space;
I hear the low, large moon arouse,
I see her lift her languid face.
I see her shoulder up the east,
Low-necked, and large as womanhood,—
Low-necked, as for some ample feast
Of gods, within yon orange-wood.
She spreads white palms, she whispers peace,—
Sweet peace on earth for evermore;
Sweet peace for two beneath the trees,
Sweet peace for one within the door.
The bent stream, like a scimitar
Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and on,
Till sheathed like some great sword new-drawn
In seas beneath the Carib’s star.
The high moon climbs the sapphire hill,
The lone sweet lady prays within;
The crickets keep a clang and din—
They are so loud, earth is so still!
And two men glare in silence there!
The bitter, jealous hate of each
Has grown too deep for deed or speech—
The lone, sweet lady keeps her prayer.
The vast moon high through heaven’s field
In circling chariot is rolled;
The golden stars are spun and reeled,
And woven into cloth of gold.