Where And What?

Her ivied towers tall          Old forests belt and bar,     And oh! the West's dim mountain crests          That line the blue afar.          Her gardens face dark cliffs,          That seeth against a sea     As blue and deep as the eyes of Sleep          With saddening mystery.          Red sands roll leagues on leagues          Ribbed of the wind and wave;     The near warm sky bends from on high          The pale brow of a slave.          And when the morning's beams          Lie crushed on crag and bay,     A wail of flutes and soft-strung lutes          O'er the lone land swoons away.          The woods are 'roused from rest,          A scent of earth and brine,     By brake and lake the wild things wake,          And torrents leap and shine.          But she in one gray tower          White-faced knows how he died,     And a murderous scorn on her lips is born          To curse his heart that lied.          She smiles and sorrows not:          "Ah, death! to know," she moans,     "The gluttonous grave of the bitter wave          Laughs loud above his bones!"          She laughs and hating yearns          Out toward the surf's far reach,     Like one in sleep, who, wild to weep,          Hath only moans for speech.          And when the sun had set,          And crocus heavens had fed     Their wan fire soon to a thorn-thin moon,          The flocking stars that led,          A breeze set in from sea          Most odorous with spice,     And streamed among big stars that hung          Thin mists as white as ice.          And then her eyes waxed large          With one last hideous hope,     And her throat she bent toward the firmament,          Star-scattered scope on scope.          The haunted night, that felt          The rapture so accursed,     Shook, loosening one green star that spun          Wild down the dusk and burst.          Fair was her face as Sin's;          "Ah, wretch!" she wailed, "to know     A wormy seat at Death's lean feet             May not undo such woe!          "The devil-wrangling pit          Much dearer than God's deeps     Of serious skies, where thought ne'er dies          And memory never sleeps!          "And dearer far than both,          Than Heaven or Hell, the jest,     The godless lot to rot and rot,          And not be cursed or blessed!"