Or there above the beeches,
On terraced reaches
Of rolling roses, towered
And moonbeam-bowered,
Is it her palace airy?—
Or dream of Fairy?—
Piled, full of melody and marble-white,
Its pointed casements lit with piercing light:
Wherein, all veiled and hidden,
She waits,—who long hath bidden
Me come to her,—her accoladed knight?
IV
The blue night’s sweetness settles—
Like hyacinth petals,
Bowed by their weight of rain-drops—
Around me: pain drops
From off my heart, the sadness
Of life to gladness
Of beauty turns, that was not born to die;
That whispers in my soul and tells me why
I, too, was born—to render
Her worship: feel her splendor
Expand me like a rose beneath God’s eye.
WORLD’S ATTAINMENT
A Lorelei full fair she sits
Above the Stream of Life that rolls;
And, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knits
To her from year to year men’s souls.
They hear her harp, they hear her song,
Behold her beauty throned on high,
And gazing on her, sweep along,
Strike on the rocks and sink and die.
A BLOWN ROSE
Lay but a finger on
Its pallid petals sweet,
They flutter, gray and wan,
Beneath the passing feet.
But, soft! blown rose, although
Departed is thy bloom,—
Thy bud, thy youth, I know,
Had no such sweet perfume.
Thou art like one whose page
Of life is beauty-fraught,
Who grays to ripe old-age,
Sweet-mellowed through with thought: