Poetry Archives

When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking,
 And white on the hearth was last night’s flame,
Thither to me ‘twixt sleeping and waking,
 Singing out of the mists she came.

And grey as the mists on the spectre meadows
 Were the eyes that on my eyes she laid,
And her hair’s red splendor through the shadows
 Like to the marsh-fire gleamed and played.

And she sang of the wondrous far-off places
 That a man may only see in dreams,
The death-still, odorous, starlit spaces
 Where Time is lost and no life gleams.

And there till the day had its crest uplifted,
 She stood with her still face bent on me,
Then forth with the Dawn departing drifted
 Light as a foam-fleck on the sea.

And now my heart is the heart of a swallow
 That here no solace of rest may find,
Forevermore I follow and follow
 Her white feet glancing down the wind.

And forevermore in my ears are ringing—
 (Oh, red lips yet shall I kiss you dumb!)
Twain sole words of that May morn’s singing,
 Calling to me “Hither”! and “Come”!

From flower-bright fields to the wild lake-sedges
 Crying my steps when the Day has gone,
Till dim and small down the Night’s pale edges
 The stars have fluttered one by one.

And light as the thought of a love forgotten,
 The hours skim past, while before me flies
That face of the Sun and Mist begotten,
 Its singing lips and death-cold eyes.