THE DAWN

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams

Of her beloved Darkness, rose in fear,

Feeling the presence of another near.

Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams

Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid

Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.

When lo! the bold intruder lurking there

Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid,

And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night

Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white

Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.

The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught

My meaning. For there lurks a thought

Back of thy song.

In art, all thought is wrong.

Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound

To nothing but sweet sound.

Strike now the chords

And sing of