Through the dim air a spirit frets 
His closely-woven wings ; 
Like love, upon my brow he sets 
The crown of many kings. 
 
(The trembling demons of the sea 
Before the poet bend ; 
He greets the angels quietly 
As one who greets a friend ; 
He waiteth, passionless, to be 
A witness of the end.) 
 
I chant in low sweet verses still 
A mystic song of dread, 
As one imposing all his will 
Upon the expectant dead ; 
And lights dip down, and shadows fill 
The dreams that haunt my head. 
 
I sing strange stories of that world 
No man may ever see ; 
My lips with strong delight are curled 
To kiss the sacred knee, 
 
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