Songs of the Spirit

Half guide, half tempter toward the stream of error, On whose fresh bosom many a mariner Puts out with silken sail—to find his grave In its voluptuous wave. Here are few rocks whereon a ship hath peril ; No storms may ruffle its insidious stream ; Only, no fish invade its waters sterile, No white-winged birds above it glance and gleam, Only, it hath no shore, no wave, but gloom Wraps it within her womb. No sun is mirrored in its treacherous water, Only the false moon flickers and flits by Like to the bloodless phantom shape of slaughter Laughing a lipless laugh—a mockery, A ghastly memory to wake and weep —Should Sorrow let me sleep. No current draws a man, to his fair seeming, Yet all the while he whirls a stealthy sweep Narrower, nearer, where the wave is steaming With the slight spray tossed from that funnel deep 29