Three peaks, one loftier, all in virgin white,
Poised high in cloudland when the day is done,
And on the mid-most, far above the night,
The rose-red of the long-departed sun.
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A wild girl reeling, helpless, like to fall,
Down a hushed street at dawn in midsummer;
And one who had clean forgot their past and all,
From a lit palace casement looks at her.
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A young man, only clothed with youth's best bloom,
In mien and form an angel, not in eye;
Hard by, a fell worm creeping from a tomb,
And one, wide-eyed, who cries, "The Enemy!"
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A lake of molten fires which swell and surge
And fall in thunders on the burning verge;
And one a queen rapt, with illumined face,
Who doth defy the Goddess of the place.
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Eros beneath a red-cupped tree, asleep,
And floating round him, like to cherubim,
Fair rosy laughter-dimpled loves, who peep
Upon the languid loosened limbs of him.
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