DEATH IN LIFE.

Within my veins it beats

And burns within my brain;

For when the year is sad and sear

I dream the dream again.

Ah! over young am I

God knows! yet in this sleep

More pain and woe than women know

I know, and doubly deep!...

Seven towers of shaggy rock

Rise red to ragged skies,

Built in a marsh that, black and harsh,

To dead horizons lies.

Eternal sunset pours,

Around its warlock towers,

A glowing urn where garnets burn

With fire-dripping flowers.

O'er bat-like turrets high,

Stretched in a scarlet line,

The crimson cranes through rosy rains

Drop like a ruby wine.

Once in the banquet-hall

These scarlet storks are heard:—

I sit at board with men o’ th’ sword

And knights of noble word;

Cased all in silver mail;

But he, I love and fear,

In glittering gold beside me bold

Sits like a lover near.

Wild music echoes in

The hollow towers there;

Behind bright bars o’ his visor, stars

Beam in his eyes and glare.

Wild music oozes from

Arched ceilings, caked with white

Groined pearl; and floors like mythic shores

That sing to seas of light.

Wild music and a feast,

And one's beloved near

In burning mail — why am I pale,

So pale with grief and fear?

Red heavens and slaughter-red

The marsh to west and east;

Seven slits of sky, seven casements high,

Flare on the blood-red feast.

Our torches tall are these,

Our revel torches seven,

That spill from gold soft splendors old —

The hour of night — eleven.

No word. The sparkle aches

In cups of diamond-spar,

That prism the light of ruddy white

In royal wines of war.

No word. Rich plate that rays,

Splashes of splitting fires,

Off beryl brims; while sobs and swims

Enchantment of lost lyres.

I lean to him I love,

And in the silence say:

“Would thy dear grace reveal thy face,

If love should crave and pray?”

Grave Silence, like a king,

At that strange feast is set;

Grave Silence still as the soul's will,

That rules the reason yet.

But when I speak, behold!

The charm is snapped, for low

Speaks out the mask o’ his golden casque,

“At midnight be it so!”

And Silence waits severe,

Till one sonorous tower,

Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,

Sounds slow the midnight hour.

Three strokes; the knights arise,

The palsy from them flung,

To meward mock like some hoarse rock

When wrecking waves give tongue.

Six strokes; and wailing out

The music hoots away;

The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer,

The red grows ghostly gray.

Nine strokes; and dropping mould

The crumbling hall is lead;

The plate is rust, the feast is dust,

The banqueters are dead.

Twelve strokes pound out and roll;

The huge walls writhe and shake

O'er hissing things with taloned wings —

Christ Jesus, let me wake!

Then rattling in the night

His iron visor slips —

In rotting mail a death's-head pale

Kisses my loathing lips.

Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes,

Sharp-pointed like a knife,

That flaming seem to say, “No dream!

No dream! the truth of Life!”