Fragment III - Years After

Fade off the ridges, rosy light,     Fade slowly from the last gray height,     And leave no gloomy cloud to grieve     The heart of this enchanted eve!     All things beneath the still sky seem     Bound by the spell of a sweet dream;     In the dusk forest, dreamingly,     Droops slowly down each plumd head;     The river flowing softly by     Dreams of the sea; the quiet sea     Dreams of the unseen stars; and I     Am dreaming of the dreamless dead.     The river has a silken sheen,     But red rays of the sunset stain     Its pictures, from the steep shore caught,     Till shades of rock, and fern, and tree     Glow like the figures on a pane     Of some old church by twilight seen,     Or like the rich devices wrought     In mediaeval tapestry.     All lonely in a drifting boat     Through shine and shade I float and float,     Dreaming and dreaming, till I seem     Part of the picture and the dream.     There is no sound to break the spell,     No voice of bird or stir of bough;     Only the lisp of waters wreathing     In little ripples round the prow,     And a low air, like Silence breathing,     That hardly dusks the sleepy swell     Whereon I float to that strange deep     That sighs upon the shores of Sleep.          .         .         .         .         .          But in the silent heaven blooming     Behold the wondrous sunset flower     That blooms and fades within the hour,     The flower of fantasy, perfuming     With subtle melody of scent     The blue aisles of the firmament!     For colour, music, scent, are one;     From deeps of air to airless heights,     Lo! how he sweeps, the splendid sun,     His burning lyre of many lights!     See the clear golden lily blowing!     It shines as shone thy gentle soul,     O my most sweet, when from the goal     Of life, far-gazing, thou didst see,     While Death still feared to touch thine eyes,     Where such immortal light was glowing,     The vision of eternity,     The pearly gates of Paradise!     Now richer hues the skies illume:     The pale gold blushes into bloom,     Delicate as the flowering     Of first love in the tender spring     Of Life, when love is wizardry     That over narrow days can throw     A glamour and a glory! so     Did thine, my Beautiful, for me     So long ago; so long ago.     So long ago! so long ago!     Ah, who can Love and Grief estrange?     Or Memory and Sorrow part?     Lo, in the West another change,     A deeper glow: a rose of fire:     A rose of passionate desire     Lone burning in a lonely heart.     A lonely heart; a lonely flood.     The wave that glassed her gleaming head     And smiling passed, it does not know     That gleaming head lies dark and low;     The myrtle-tree that bends above,     I pray that it may early bud,     For under its green boughs sat we,     We twain, we only, hand in hand,     When Love was lord of all the land,     It does not know that she is dead     And all is over now with Love,     Is over now with Love and me.     Once more, once more, O shining years     Gone by; once more, O vanished days     Whose hours flew by on iris-wings,     Come back and bring my love to me!     My voice faints down the wooded ways     And dies along the darkling flood.     The past is past; I cry in vain,     For when did Death an answer deign     To Loves heart-broken questionings?     The dead are deaf; dust chokes their ears;     Only the rolling river hears     Far off the calling of the sea,     A shiver strikes through all my blood,     Mine eyes are full of sudden tears.     .         .         .         .         .     The shadows gather over all,     The valley, and the mountains old;     Shadow on shadow fast they fall     On glooming green and waning gold;     And on my heart they gather drear,     Damp as with grave-damps, dark with fear.          .         .         .         .         .          O Sorrow, Sorrow, couldst thou leave me     Not one brief hour to dream alone?     Hast thou not all my days to grieve me?     My nights, are they not all thine own?     Thou hauntest me at morning light,     Thou blackenest the white moonbeams;     A hollow voice at noon; at night     A crowned ghost, sitting on a throne,     Ruling the kingdom of my dreams.          .         .         .         .         .          Maker of men, Thou gavest breath,     Thou gavest love to all that live,     Thou rendest loves and lives apart;     Allwise art Thou; who questioneth     Thy will, or who can read Thy heart?     But couldst Thou not in mercy give     A sign to us, one little spark     Of sure hope that the end of all     Is not concealed beneath the pall,     Or wound up with the winding-sheet?     Who heedeth aught the preacher saith     When eyes wax dim, and limbs grow stark,     And fear sits on the darkened bed?     The dying man turns to the wall.     What hope have we above our dead?     Tense fingers clutching at the dark,     And hopeless hands that vainly beat     Against the iron doors of Death!