THE CITADEL

A night wind-swept and bound about with blee

Of Erebus; all light and cheer within;

White restless hands that falter, then begin

To weave a music-voiced fantasy.

And life, and death, and love, and weariness,

And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound;

And one voice saith, “Behold, the lost is found!”

And saith not any more for joyfulness.

Out of the night there comes a wanderer,

Who waits upon the threshold, and is still;

And listens, and bows down his head, until

His grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her.

The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell,

A prisoner in his conquered citadel.