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To flit down the shadow-shot-with-gleam,
Silent, aimless, dayless, slow
To the cultus of night. Abandon the day.
Look at the owl, scarce seen, scarce heard,
A SONG OF THE FUTURE.
SAIL fast, sail fast,
Ark of my hopes, Ark of my dreams;
Fly glittering through the sun's strange beams;
Breaths of new buds from off some drying lea
And stay not long; oh, stay not long :
OF fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,
Complain no more; for these, O heart,
Direct the random of the will
As rhymes direct the rage of art.
The lute's fixt fret, that runs athwart
Doth bar his wilful wavering.
The dark hath many dear avails;
The dark distils divinest dews;
With dreams, and with the heavenly Muse.
Bleeding with thorns of petty strife,
Writ red in issues from the heart.
What grace may lie within the chill
Of fret, of dark, of thorn, of chill,
Bank-in the current of the will
WOULD that my songs might be
What roses make by day and night-
Soul, could'st thou bare thy breast
All clean, and large, and calm with velvet rest?
Ah, dear my Rose, good-bye;
The wind is up; so; drift away.
That songs from me as leaves from thee may fly, I strive, I pray.
Soul, get thee to the heart
Of yonder tuberose: hide thee there— There breathe the meditations of thine art Suffused with prayer.
Of spirit grave yet light,
How fervent fragrances uprise
Pure-born from these most rich and yet most white
Mulched with unsavory death,
Grow, Soul! unto such white estate,
That virginal-prayerful art shall be thy breath,
Thy work, thy fate.
TO-DAY the woods are trembling through and through
The beech dreams balm, as a dreamer hums a song;
Throb from young hickories breathing deep and long
Now, since the dew-plashed road of morn is dry,
And heavenlier giving. Like Jove's locks awry,
Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines,
I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green
I start at fragmentary whispers, blown