Collected Works (Vol. III)

150 ORPHEUS ORPHEUS. O hours not of day But of ons that roll! Earth stretches away From pole unto pole ; Four seasons decay, Ere one sound of thy soul, O fervent and following years, springs over the solar goal ! Come forth to the sound Of the seven sweet strings ! Advance and rebound ! Be your. pomp as a king’s ! Girdled around With seasons and stings As a serpent’s encompassing Time. forth ! on the heavy grey wings! Come Ye arbiter lords That sit as for doom, Bright splendour of swords Leaps forth in your gloom ! But stronger my chords Shall lift in your womb The love of your passage and time, imme- morial ages, your tomb. | Ye linger for long, But ye pass and are done: But I, my sweet song Outliveth the sun ! Ye are many and strong; I am stronger, and one ! Come forth! I invoke ye, O years, in my evening orison. THE YEARS. Crowned with Eternity, beyond beginning; Sandalled with wings, Eternity’s ; the end Far beyond sight of striving soul or sinning ; Ourselves see not, nor know, nor compre- hend. Reeling from chaos, unto Chronos winning, Devoured of Him our Father and our friend, This is our life, lead winged or footed golden ; We pass, and each of other is unbeholden. Ranged in dim spectral order and procession, We span man’s thought, we limit him in time ; None of the souls of earth have had posses- sion Of larger loves or passions more sublime. Where the night-caverns hide our solemn session The summoning word lifts up our holy rhyme. Even as a mighty river, bend to bend, We rise in turn and look toward the end. Also, the Gods arisen from the living Lights of the sky, half hidden in the night, Vast shapes beholden of men unbelieving, Staggering the sense and reason with the sight, Manifold, mighty, monstrous, no light giving Unto the soul that is not also light ; We rise in ghastly power; we know the token, © The speech of silence and the song unspoken. ORPHEUS., Come forth to the sound, Ye lustres of years That hide in profound Abysses of fears, Hidden and bound ! The voice of tears Implores and impels ye, O lustres, with a tune that is strong as a seer’s. THE LUSTRES. Fivefold the shape sublime that lifts its head Uniform, self-repeating, comparable At last to a man’s life: twice seven times dead Ere the light flickers in that citadel, Or the great whiteness lure his soul instead Of many-coloured earth: ere the strong spell Fail, and the Fates with iron-shapen shears Cut the frail silver, hide him from the years.