Songs of the Spirit

In the sweet phantasies of subtle sleep— Fancies of lonely shadows darkly strewn About the leaves of autumn in the woods, Where the small floweret, hidden by the maze O’ th’ dying children o’ the copper-beech, Lifts a blue forehead to the sun to kiss— Fancies of old romance too pitiful For any delicate quill to light upon— Yes, when the sky from stainless ebony Merges in azure, like as if the light Of stars had melted into all the black To gladden it, O then the solemn hush Of morning shall behold the silent grave, And wait a moment in rich worshipping Of Love, creator of the world’s delight, Till the full chorus of the spirits of fire, Whose mighty shoulders and wide-flashing wings Bear the proud sun from his luxurious bed Of rosy fleeces in the West low lying Into the staircase of the jealous day, Burst on the silence of the world beyond And bid the listening poet catch the strain Of their half-echoed hymn. But come, my friends, 33