ROSA IGNOTA
In the gold of a faded summer sun
Burnished and dull, in clouds of dun
And brilliant amber. Soft! Let be
The tender dream! Stay here with me!
So, to this dream, this dream, I give
Again the pulsing life I live:
The faded sunset thrills the sweet
Core of my soul ;—ah! nimble feet
Grown old! Oh! autumn woodlands fraught
With pensiveness of waking thought!
The gray night gathers, soft and cold,
The old dead dreams, dead dreams of old,—
The cold, gray, windy breath of time,
The old dead loves, the unsung rime :
Autumn, the pale, gray, crispéd star,
Virginal, golden nenuphar,
Folden upon itself to sleep,
To sleep and die, to wake and weep
Soft silver tears of old desire.
O molten silver of my lyre,
Transmute, transmute my autumn dream,
Transmute the winding star-lit stream
To the stream of olden grace and love;
The earth beneath, the sky above ;
And round the russet autumn’s chill
The brown leaves swirling, swirling still
Where London autumn waxes cold,
Where night grows younger, fold on fold.
The short, gray day fades softly down
To dusk; Night bears the radiant crown
141