THE SOMNAMBULIST
Oaks and a water. By the water—eyes,
Ice-green and steadfast as still stars; and hair
Yellow as eyes deep in a she-wolf’s lair;
And limbs—like mist the lightning’s flicker dyes.
The humped oaks huddle under iron skies;
The dry wind whirls the dead leaves everywhere;
White on the water falls a vulture-glare
Of moon, and black the circling raven flies.
Again the power of this thing hath laid
Compulsion on me: and I seem to hear
A sweet voice calling me beyond the gates
To longed-for love: I come: each forest glade
Seems reaching out white arms to draw me near—
Nearer and nearer to the death that waits.
OPIUM
On reading De Quincey’s “Confessions of an Opium Eater.”
I seemed to stand before a temple walled
From shadows and night’s unrealities;
Filled with dark music of dead memories,
And voices,—lost in darkness,—deep that called.
I entered. And beneath the dome’s high-halled
Immensity one forced me to my knees
Before a blackness—throned ’mid semblances
And spectres—crowned with flames of emerald.
Then, lo! two shapes that thundered at mine ears
The names of Horror and Oblivion,—
Priests of this god,—and bade me die and dream.
Then, in the heart of Hell, a thousand years
Meseemed I lay—dead! while the iron stream
Of Time beat out the seconds, one by one.
MUSIC AND SLEEP
These have a life that hath no part in death:
These circumscribe the soul and make it strong:
Between the breathing of a dream and song,
Building a world of beauty in a breath.
Unto the heart the voice of this one saith
Ideals, its emotions live among;
Unto the mind the other speaks a tongue
Of visions, where the guess,—men christen Faith,—
May face the fact of immortality—
As may a rose its unembodied scent,
Or star its own reflected radiance.
We do not know these save subconsciously,
To whose mysterious shadows God hath lent
No certain shape, no certain countenance.