Collected Works (Vol. II)

32 ORACLES NIGHT IN THE VALLEY. Written at the foot of Citlaltepetl. I LAY within the forest’s virgin womb Tranced in the sweetness, nuptial, indolent, Of the faint breeze and tropical perfume, And all the music far lone waters lent Unto the masses of magnolia bloom, Tall scarlet lilies, and the golden scent Shed by strange clusters of more pallid flowers, And purple lustre strewn amid the twilight bowers. Far, far the pastureless, the unquiet sea Moaned ; far the stately pyramid of cold Shrouding the stars, arose: sweet witchery That brought them in the drowsing eye, to fold The picture in: the winged imagery That Hermes gathers with that floral gold Whose triple flower or flame or pinioned light Lends life to death, and love and colour unto light. How flames that scarlet stronger than Apollo, Too swift and warm to know itself a bird! How the light winds and waves of moonlight follow, Shot from the West, cadence of Daylight’s word ! How flock the tribes of wings within the hollow, Even as darkness summons home the herd ! The still slow water slackens into sleep. The rose-glow dies, leaves cold Citlaltepetl’s? steep. The chattering voices of the day depart. Earth folds her limbs and leans her loving breast Even to all her children: the great heart Beats solemnly the requiem of rest. The sea keeps tune; the silent stars upstart Seeming to sentinel that sombre crest Where of old time burst out the vulture fire Cyclopean, that is dead, now, as a man’s desire. 1 Called by the Spaniards Orizaba. The drowsy cries of night birds, then the song Lovely and lovelorn in the listening vale, So wild and tender, swooping down in long Notes of despair, then lifting the low tale In golden notes to skyward in one throng Of clustered silver, so the nightingale Tunes the wild flute, as dryads he would gather To roof with music in the palace of the weather, With love despairing, dying as music dies ; With lost souls’ weeping, and the bitter muse Of such as lift their hearts in sacrifice On some strange cross, or shed Sicilian dews Over a sadder lake than Sicily’s— Hark! they are leaping from the valley views Into the light and laughter and deep grief Of that immortal heart that sings beyond belief. How pitiful; how beautiful, the faces ! The long hair shed on shoulders ivory white ! Each note shoots down the dim arboreal spaces Like amber or like hyaline lit with light. Each spirit glimmers in the shadowy places Like hyacinths or emeralds: or the night Shows them as shadows of some antique gem Where moonlight fills its cup and flashes into them. So, in the moony twilight and the splendour Of music’s light, the desolate nightingale Fills all the interlunar air with tender Kisses like song, or shrills upon the scale, Till quivering moonrays shake again, to send her Luminous tunes through every sleepy vale, While the slow dancers rhythmically reap The fairy amaranth, and silver wheat of sleep.