Classic Poem

Wind sings.

" Fresh as the eyes of the dew,
As the sea's white foam on its crest,
As the scent of the flowers I carry,
Wild thyme, and the bee-sipped lime,
Till I faint with the weight and tarry
Through the long, hot hours, as I rest
On the wings of the noon;
The outspread wings that quiver
From a heart whose life at the brim
Thrills every sense with emotion,
Till these reel and swim
With the life of the life intense,
Till motion vibrating ever
Seems to close in its own excess,
And the breath of delight touches death. "

But she, O mad caress,
Who kissed the day with her smile,
Who drank of the mystic hour,
Who toyed with the guile of the demon's breath,
With the mist of the wile of his power;
Who carries the bulb in her breast,
The bright mist ball in a nest
Of innocent snow —

Now cold as marble lies,
As smooth and clear the cheek, and covered eyes,
In the arms of the wild will, still.
Is it well? Is it woe?
Snowbell.

Clear, softness of the midnight air,
All gentle sweeps o' the wind,
Lie down and die.
Dimness and any tenderness or mystery
That, with a nameless sound,
Crept in about the hollow from the sweet sunset,
Looking round and lingering, slink ye behind;
Go, leave a clear, hard place,
Moonlight shine strong upon her face,
Still in the chill night,
And mournful wise low laid.
What is it casts deep shade
Betwixt her and the skies,
Lo! shooting upwards, higher, higher?
A red soot flake out of the devil's fire, Ho!

Shaping a strange shape, I wis,
Whirling and changing alack!
A chariot flame-winged, living-wheeled on the track
Of her sleeping, drawn up close where she is.

See heavily and mournful wise,
Still sleeping as she lies,
Uplift is she;
Languidly on her breast
Clasped fingers rest,
Across the mist-ball magical;
Whilst fall
Her robes into the blackness of the air,
That drowns her yellow hair;
Now in the chariot laid,
Alas! fair maid.

Burn, turn, fiery tongues, lo! they shoot
Into traces, each flame from its root
At the chariot-head, stride
Devils' horses, that shake
The flakes of the night off wide
Into the blackness that clings.
Flame-wings plunge and sway,
Living wheels turn.
Away, what delay, chariot? Do you quake
At the weight of your freight,
At the wave of her sun-dipped hair,
At the weight of your fear of her fair?

But away and away
To the frozen country,
Swiftly. Hist! —
Till the night die pitifully for this,
That she hath slept away,
Till the sun, I wis,
Opening his door so bold,
To greet her, shall behold
Only a vanishing mist,
And a dewdrop or two upon his threshold.