Where three tall cypresses stand dark,
Against a setting sun,
And the shades of night lurk in their leaves,
Ere ever the day be done,
And the day-blind bats flit mournful by,
Or ever the night be won,
And the great white owl, he waits for her
Who comes when the day is done:
Or, in the glade of a mystic wood,
Beneath a midnight sky,
Where the satyrs dance 'neath the strange gaunt trees,
And the moon looks down from on high:
O the wicked moon, she sees and laughs,
As she passes swiftly by!
But the holy stars turn their eyes away
From the light in Lilith's eye:
For the dead gaunt trees feel the buds break green
When Lilith dances past,
And the faery-fingers shake with joy,
And softly whisper “At last!”
And the little night-flowers, they smile and sigh,
For the morning cometh fast;
And the holy stars had no peace in heaven,
Saw they her gliding past!
O the weird white mistletoe bends from the oak,
As she danceth beneath the trees,
And the perfume of dark night-flowers creeps out,
And hangs on the trembling breeze,
And the dim Red Poppy, whose name is Dream,
Longs for her flowing hair,
And the great White Poppy of dreamless Sleep
Droops over Lilith's lair,
But the Wine-dark Poppy, whose gift is Death,
Stands lone in the chill night air!
Or, in a storm-vext mountain pass,
By the torrent's shuddering foam,
She danceth alone with the lonely winds,
And the clouds that know no home:
Content, remembering Lilith's face,
Round the round world they roam!
And by the side of a reedy stream,
On a white dream-night of June,
When reed and iris whisper soft
Their secrets to the moon,
Her feet keep time to the pipes of Pan,
As he plays a murmuring tune,
And a young wind wakes before the dawn,
The dawn that breaks too soon.
Or, oft-times through a little town,
Built long and long ago,
She glides adown the grass-grown ways,
'Neath the moon's yellow glow,
O the moon gleams red o'er the ancient town,
And Lilith passes slow!
Or, in some antique garden strays.
Beneath a hedge of yew,
And from the rich red roses shakes
The treasures of the dew,
But she goes not nigh the lilies tall,
The Virgin's lilies white,
For Lilith loves not Mary's Flower,
Gift of the Angel bright:
She loves the Poppy whose name is Sleep,
And the deadly flowers of night.
Or where the weird white hawthorn makes
A glimmer in the night,
And all the trees are dreaming deep,
Bathed in the May moonlight,
'Tis there and then that Lilith meets
The Spirits of the Night;
In the dim, haunted vale they dance,
Beside the Pools of Sleep,
But they go not up the mountain side
That rises grey and steep,
For there the lonely rowan trees
Their holy vigil keep.
Or, when the faint first flush of dawn
Tinges the desert sands.
And the desert, like a mighty sea,
Stretches to distant lands,
Or ever the sun has risen yet,
For a moment's space she stands.
Or, on the foamy verge of the sea,
She dances through the night,
And rides through the mist and the dashing spray,
On the great sea-horses white,
She sports with sea-maids on silver sands
Beneath the moaning waves,
And the sea-flowers quiver and yearn to her
As she glides through the ocean-caves,
And the lonely sailor hears her song
Rise through the surging waves.
Oft in the dreaming meadows,
When children are at play,
Beside the flower-twined hedgerow,
At the dim close of day,
Poor childless Lilith beckons,
And bids the children stay,
But at one glance of Lilith's eyes
Their white souls flee away!
And mortal man who sees her dance,
By wood or lake or shore,
Will roam the world for love of her,
Nor knows he joyance more,
And he who heareth Lilith sing
Will ne'er be as before.
For in her song are youth and age,
Evening, the sea-waves' knell,
And storm, and death, and moonlit skies,
And thoughts that none may tell,
And he who hears can ne'er have peace,
Through Earth and Heaven and Hell!
Against a setting sun,
And the shades of night lurk in their leaves,
Ere ever the day be done,
And the day-blind bats flit mournful by,
Or ever the night be won,
And the great white owl, he waits for her
Who comes when the day is done:
Or, in the glade of a mystic wood,
Beneath a midnight sky,
Where the satyrs dance 'neath the strange gaunt trees,
And the moon looks down from on high:
O the wicked moon, she sees and laughs,
As she passes swiftly by!
But the holy stars turn their eyes away
From the light in Lilith's eye:
For the dead gaunt trees feel the buds break green
When Lilith dances past,
And the faery-fingers shake with joy,
And softly whisper “At last!”
And the little night-flowers, they smile and sigh,
For the morning cometh fast;
And the holy stars had no peace in heaven,
Saw they her gliding past!
O the weird white mistletoe bends from the oak,
As she danceth beneath the trees,
And the perfume of dark night-flowers creeps out,
And hangs on the trembling breeze,
And the dim Red Poppy, whose name is Dream,
Longs for her flowing hair,
And the great White Poppy of dreamless Sleep
Droops over Lilith's lair,
But the Wine-dark Poppy, whose gift is Death,
Stands lone in the chill night air!
Or, in a storm-vext mountain pass,
By the torrent's shuddering foam,
She danceth alone with the lonely winds,
And the clouds that know no home:
Content, remembering Lilith's face,
Round the round world they roam!
And by the side of a reedy stream,
On a white dream-night of June,
When reed and iris whisper soft
Their secrets to the moon,
Her feet keep time to the pipes of Pan,
As he plays a murmuring tune,
And a young wind wakes before the dawn,
The dawn that breaks too soon.
Or, oft-times through a little town,
Built long and long ago,
She glides adown the grass-grown ways,
'Neath the moon's yellow glow,
O the moon gleams red o'er the ancient town,
And Lilith passes slow!
Or, in some antique garden strays.
Beneath a hedge of yew,
And from the rich red roses shakes
The treasures of the dew,
But she goes not nigh the lilies tall,
The Virgin's lilies white,
For Lilith loves not Mary's Flower,
Gift of the Angel bright:
She loves the Poppy whose name is Sleep,
And the deadly flowers of night.
Or where the weird white hawthorn makes
A glimmer in the night,
And all the trees are dreaming deep,
Bathed in the May moonlight,
'Tis there and then that Lilith meets
The Spirits of the Night;
In the dim, haunted vale they dance,
Beside the Pools of Sleep,
But they go not up the mountain side
That rises grey and steep,
For there the lonely rowan trees
Their holy vigil keep.
Or, when the faint first flush of dawn
Tinges the desert sands.
And the desert, like a mighty sea,
Stretches to distant lands,
Or ever the sun has risen yet,
For a moment's space she stands.
Or, on the foamy verge of the sea,
She dances through the night,
And rides through the mist and the dashing spray,
On the great sea-horses white,
She sports with sea-maids on silver sands
Beneath the moaning waves,
And the sea-flowers quiver and yearn to her
As she glides through the ocean-caves,
And the lonely sailor hears her song
Rise through the surging waves.
Oft in the dreaming meadows,
When children are at play,
Beside the flower-twined hedgerow,
At the dim close of day,
Poor childless Lilith beckons,
And bids the children stay,
But at one glance of Lilith's eyes
Their white souls flee away!
And mortal man who sees her dance,
By wood or lake or shore,
Will roam the world for love of her,
Nor knows he joyance more,
And he who heareth Lilith sing
Will ne'er be as before.
For in her song are youth and age,
Evening, the sea-waves' knell,
And storm, and death, and moonlit skies,
And thoughts that none may tell,
And he who hears can ne'er have peace,
Through Earth and Heaven and Hell!