One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending
A ruby path between the earth and sky;
Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending
From where the sorrows of our singers lie;
They have not found those wandering spirits yet,
But seek for ever in the red sunset.
Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these,
They sit not in the cypress-planted graves;
Their spirits wander over moonlit waves,
And sing in all the singing of the seas;
And by green places in the spring-tide showers,
And in the re-awakening of flowers.
Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam
Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod;
They are the earth’s for evermore; fly home!
And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
II.—IN THE COLISEUM.
Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone;
Beneath, the shadow of arches falls
From the dim outline of the broken walls;
And the half-light steals o’er the age-worn stone
From a midway arch where the moon looks through
A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
This is the hour of ghosts that rise;—
Line on line of the noiseless dead—
The clouds above are their awning spread;
Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes,
You will see the writhing of limbs in pain,
And the whole red tragedy over again.
The ghostly galleys ride out and meet,
The Cæsar sits in his golden chair,
His fingers toy with his women’s hair,
The water is blood-red under his feet,—
Till the owl’s long cry dies down with the night,
And one star waits for the dawning light.