Puslapio vaizdai
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Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark

Renewed in rapture in the reddening air.
A thing of splendor do I deem him then,
A feathered frenzy with an angel's throat,
A something sweet that somewhere seems
to float

"Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men.
He fills me with such wonder and despair!
I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright,
As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.
Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one,
And do thou teach me, Love, to sing
aright!

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Take me now to thy breast, Earth, sweet mother of men.

Hide me and let me sleep;
Give me a lonely tomb

So close and so dark and so deep
I shall hear no trumpet of doom.

There let me lie forgot

When the dead at its blast are gone; Give me to hear it not,

But only to slumber on.

This is the fate I crave,

For I look to the end and see If there be not rest in the grave There will never be rest for me.

THE AGE

I

A PALE and soul-sick woman with wan eyes

Fixed on their own reflection in the glass, Uncertain lips half-oped to say "Alas, Naked I stand between two mysteries, Finding my wisdom naught who am most wise."

Behind, the shapes and fiery shadows pass Of fervent life; no joy in them she has, But gazing on herself she moans and sighs. And yet of knowledge she doth hold the key,

And Power and Pleasure are her handmaidens,

And all past years have given of their best To make her rich and great and strong and free,

Who stands in slack and listless impotence, Marvelling sadly at her own unrest.

II

Her children cluster round about her knees;

The hoarded wealth and wisdom of the
Dead

Of all past time they have inherited,
And still within their hands it doth

increase;

Yet in their eyes is mirrored her dis-peace, Her weariness within their hearts is shed; Her dreary sorrow weighs each drooping head,

And each soul sickens with her fell disease.

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