The cold light steal
Between them, and the timorous child shall start,
            Hearing his heart
Drubbing affrighted at the frail gates, for lo,
            The ghostly glow
Of the wild moon, caught in the barren arms
Of leafless branches loud with night’s alarms!

DISCOVERY

Beauty walked over the hills and made them bright. 
She in the long fresh grass scattered her rains
Sparkling and glittering like a host of stars,
But not like stars cold, severe, terrible. 
Hers was the laughter of the wind that leaped
Arm-full of shadows, flinging them far and wide. 
Hers the bright light within the quick green
Of every new leaf on the oldest tree. 
It was her swimming made the river run
Shining as the sun;
Her voice, escaped from winter’s chill and dark,
Singing in the incessant lark.... 
All this was hers—­yet all this had not been
Except ’twas seen. 
It was my eyes, Beauty, that made thee bright;
My ears that heard, the blood leaping in my veins,
The vehemence of transfiguring thought—­
Not lights and shadows, birds, grasses and rains—­
That made thy wonders wonderful. 
For it has been, Beauty, that I have seen thee,
Tedious as a painted cloth at a bad play,
Empty of meaning and so of all delight. 
Now thou hast blessed me with a great pure bliss,
Shaking thy rainy light all over the earth,
And I have paid thee with my thankfulness.

MORE THAN SWEET

The noisy fire,
The drumming wind,
The creaking trees,
And all that hum
Of summer air
And all the long inquietude
Of breaking seas——­

Sweet and delightful are
In loneliness. 
But more than these
The quiet light
From the morn’s sun
And night’s astonished moon,
Falling gently upon breaking seas.

Such quietness
Another beauty is—­
Ah, and those stars
So gravely still
More than light, than beauty pour
Upon the strangeness
Of the heart’s breaking seas.

THE BRIGHTNESS

Away, away—­
Through that strange void and vast
Brimmed with dying day;
Away,
So that I feel
Only the wind
Of the world’s swift-rolling wheel.

See what a maze
Of whirling rays! 
The sharp wind
Weakens; the air
Is but thin air,
Not fume and flying fire.... 
O, heart’s desire,
Now thou art still
And the air chill.

And but a stem
Of clear cold light
Shines in this stony dark. 
Farewell, world of sense,
Too fair, too fair
To be so false! 
Hence, hence
Rosy memories,
Delight of ears, hands, eyes. 
Rise
When I bid, O thou
Tide of the dark,
Whelming the pale last,
Reflection of that vast
Too-fair deceit.