164
THE EQUINOX
And the secret word
That dies in light
Is seen as a bird,
As a vision heard.
The sylphs that skim
The upper air,
Light of limb,
With floating hair,
Tune their lyres
To the faded west,
And the sacred fires,
As they pass to rest,
For a moment stay
As a note half-heard
On their homeward way
As a weary bird
Lingers in space.
O molten air!
O dying grace!
O dream most rare!
O fire most fair!
The waves that wander
Under the night,
As stars that ponder
The birth of light,
Lift their crests
To the flash of fire,
And in their breasts
There is born desire