Moly

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings     A head of sultry slumber and aroma;     And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings     Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a     White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast -     Between the pansy fire of the west,     And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,     This heartache will have ceased.     The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep -     Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,     And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap     The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it;     Let me behold how gladness gives the whole     The transformed countenance of my own soul -     Between the sunset and the risen moon     Let sorrow vanish soon.     And these things then shall keep me company:     The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter     Who haunts the wind; the god of melody     Who sings within the stream, that reaches after     The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress:     These of themselves shall shape my happiness,     Whose visible presence I shall lean upon,     Feeling that care is gone.     Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;     The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;     How joy, begotten 'twixt a sigh and sigh,     Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup, -     Remembering how within the hollow lute     Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute;     And in the heart, when all seems black despair,     Hope sits, awaiting there.