Death In Life.

Within my veins it beats         And burns within my brain;     For when the year is sad and sear         I dream the dream again.         Ah! over young am I         God knows! yet in this sleep     More pain and woe than women know         I know, and doubly deep!...         Seven towers of shaggy rock         Rise red to ragged skies,     Built in a marsh that, black and harsh,         To dead horizons lies.         Eternal sunset pours,         Around its warlock towers,     A glowing urn where garnets burn         With fire-dripping flowers.         O'er bat-like turrets high,         Stretched in a scarlet line,     The crimson cranes through rosy rains         Drop like a ruby wine.         Once in the banquet-hall         These scarlet storks are heard:     I sit at board with men o' th' sword         And knights of noble word;         Cased all in silver mail;         But he, I love and fear,     In glittering gold beside me bold         Sits like a lover near.         Wild music echoes in         The hollow towers there;     Behind bright bars o' his visor, stars         Beam in his eyes and glare.         Wild music oozes from         Arched ceilings, caked with white     Groined pearl; and floors like mythic shores         That sing to seas of light.         Wild music and a feast,         And one's belovd near     In burning mail - why am I pale,         So pale with grief and fear?         Red heavens and slaughter-red         The marsh to west and east;     Seven slits of sky, seven casements high,         Flare on the blood-red feast.         Our torches tall are these,         Our revel torches seven,     That spill from gold soft splendors old         The hour of night, eleven.         No word. The sparkle aches         In cups of diamond-spar,     That prism the light of ruddy white         In royal wines of war.         No word. Rich plate that rays,         Splashes of splitting fires,     Off beryl brims; while sobs and swims         Enchantment of lost lyres.         I lean to him I love,         And in the silence say:     "Would thy dear grace reveal thy face,         If love should crave and pray?"         Grave Silence, like a king,         At that strange feast is set;     Grave Silence still as the soul's will,         That rules the reason yet.         But when I speak, behold!         The charm is snapped, for low     Speaks out the mask o' his golden casque,         "At midnight be it so!"         And Silence waits severe,         Till one sonorous tower,     Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,         Sounds slow the midnight hour.         Three strokes; the knights arise,         The palsy from them flung,     To meward mock like some hoarse rock         When wrecking waves give tongue.         Six strokes; and wailing out         The music hoots away;     The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer,         The red grows ghostly gray.         Nine strokes; and dropping mould         The crumbling hall is lead;     The plate is rust, the feast is dust,         The banqueters are dead.         Twelve strokes pound out and roll;         The huge walls writhe and shake     O'er hissing things with taloned wings         Christ Jesus, let me wake!         Then rattling in the night         His iron visor slips     In rotting mail a death's-head pale         Kisses my loathing lips.         Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes,         Sharp-pointed like a knife,     That flaming seem to say, "No dream!         No dream! the truth of Life!"