Are those swift moments? Whither are they fled ?

I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed
Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently
Bear up against it: so farewell, sad sigh;
And come instead demurest meditation,
To occupy me wholly, and to fashion
My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.
No more will I count over, link by link,
My chain of grief: no longer strive to find
A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 980
Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt

To him her dripping hand she softly kist, And anxiously began to plait and twist Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: 'Youth!

Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth,

The bitterness of love: too long indeed, Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer All the bright riches of my crystal coffer To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;

Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands, Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands

By my diligent springs: my level lilies, shells,

grow, Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me, There is no depth to strike in: I can see Naught earthly worth my compassing; so stand

Upon a misty, jutting head of land
Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,
When mad Eurydice is listening to 't,
I'd rather stand upon this misty peak,
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,

borne

out

My love's far dwelling. ful rout

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air

A dusky empire and its diadems;
One faint eternal eventide of gems.
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,

Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the

flood,

Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.

steps told,

With all its lines abrupt and angular:
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,
Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,

He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread

All courts and passages, where silence dead, Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd faint:

And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint

Himself with every mystery, and awe; 270
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim,
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.
There, when new wonders ceased to float
before,

And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore

The journey homeward to habitual self!
A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-
brier,

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
Into the bosom of a hated thing.

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