MOLY

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings

A head of sultry slumber and aroma;

And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings

Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a

White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast —

Between the pansy fire of the west,

And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,

This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep —

Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,

And white dreams reap me as strong reapers reap

The ripened grain and full blown blossom near it;

Let me behold how gladness gives the whole

The transformed countenance of my own soul —

Between the sunset and the risen moon

Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company:

The elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter

Who haunts the wind; the god of melody

Who sings within the stream, that reaches after

The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress:

These of themselves shall shape my happiness,

Whose visible presence I shall lean upon,

Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;

The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;

How joy, begotten‘ twixt a sigh and sigh,

Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup,—

Remembering how within the hollow lute

Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute;

And in the heart, when all seems black despair,

Hope sits, awaiting there.