Deserted.

A broken rainbow on the skies of May     Touching the sodden roses and low clouds,     And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost:     Upon the heaven of a soul the ghost     Of a great love, perfect in its pure ray,     Touching the roses moist of memory     To die within the Present's grief of clouds -     A broken rainbow on the skies of May.     A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers,     Or red or white; its darting length of tongue     Sucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet,     And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet:     A love that put into expanding bowers     Of one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powers     To cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone -     A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.     A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleece     Moves amber girt into a bulk of dark,     And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth:     A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth,     Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace -     More bland than Melancholy's white - to cease     In blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark -     A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.     A blaze of living thunder - not a leap -     Momental spouting balds the pild storm,     The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean,     The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion:     A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep,     Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep,     And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm -     Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.