And ever in this heart of mine,
So won to glorious peace, divine
This vision of our lost shall shine;
Not with pale forehead in eclipse
With close-sealed lids and silent lips,
But grand in Life’s Apocalypse!
For very truly hath been said—
For the pale living—not the dead—
Should mourning’s bitterest tears be shed!
[Missive to ——.]
Purple shafts of sunset fire
Glory-crown the passionate sea,
Throbbing with a fierce desire
For the blue immensity.
Floods of pale and scarlet flame
Sweep the bases of the hills,
With a blushing unto shame
Thro’ their rosy bridal-thrills.
Slowly to the gorgeous West
Twilight paces from the East,
Like a dark, unbidden guest
Going to a marriage feast.
Dian—palaced in the blue—
O’er the eve-star, newly born,
Shakes a sweet baptismal dew
From her pearly drinking-horn.
Not the Ocean’s fiery soul
Throbbing up thro’ all his deeps—
Not the sunset tides that roll
Gloriously against the steeps
Of the hills, that to the stars
Lift their regal wedded brows,
Glittering, through the golden bars
Clasping close their nuptial snows.