Storm is her signet; hers, who writes
Stern laws in flame; and, shadowy,
With thunder seals the rolled-out nights,
And sits in terrible mystery—
The mountain-crownéd Cybele.
REVELATION
I write these things that men may hear.
This was the word that gave me cheer:
There sate a dæmon at mine ear,
Who whispered me, “Man knoweth naught.—
First know thyself wouldst thou know aught.”
This was the word that brought me grace:
There fell a shape before my face,
Who motioned me, “All forms are sin’s.—
He aims above himself who wins.”
This was the word that made me wise:
There stood an angel at mine eyes,
Who looked, “The world lives selfishly.—
Give thy own self if thou wouldst see.”
These are the words they brought to me.
ANALOGIES
Of Rosamond the beautiful, of her
The joy and pride of Cunimund,—last king
Of the fierce Gepidæ,—a warrior
Such as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,
To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at war
With Cunimund her father,—fame did bring
Report of such proud loveliness and grace
That he had loved her ere he saw her face.
War was between them and the hate of thrones:
For he had slain a son of Turismund
And brother of King Cunimund. His bones
Were as a wall between desire—unsunned
Of such encouragement as young Love owns;
Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunned
Appeal with dead defiance, and the grim
Confrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—