No voice answers, but the mist
Glows for a moment amethyst
Ere the hid sun dissolves away,
And dimness, growing dimmer gray,
Hides all ... until I nothing see
But the blind walls enclosing me,
And no sound and no motion hear
But the vague water throbbing near,
Sole voice upon the darkening hill,
Where all is blank and dead and still.
ROBERT NICHOLS
Draft for "A First and Last Song"
Deep in the harvest of the night the sickle of the moon is sweeping,
We have sowed, O my desire, now is the time for reaping!
Turn not your face, O heart, give not your love
To aught of heaven or the stars above,
These dauntless robbers purloined long ago
The crown of Kaous, the belt of Kai Khosro;
And what have we to search for in the skies
Who have the blue pavilion of your eyes?
Or what need of the gold gates flung apart
Having the crimson portals of your heart?
... So shall it be when some day by and by
You mount the glitt'ring ramparts of the sky,
Loud to the wheeling heavens you shall boast:
"O sun and moon and Pleiads at the most
You're worth a wisp of barley or of straw
Unseen, unheeded, on Love's threshing floor:
And God the praises that your angels sing
Are all celestial but can never bring
The simple wonder of a mortal's doubt
Upon those faces upturned and devout
That every blessing of Your work recall,
Nor ever need to ask: What means it all?"
Be peace! The hour is passing. Here or there
The curtain swings to lay life's secret bare.
Ah, when the dawn of ending breaks around,
Be it that in Love's garden I am found.
To immortality I leave but this:
Your head reclining in a swoon of bliss,
Your hand uplifted to pour out the wine,
The minstrels singing this one song of mine.
COLERIDGE KENNARD