ANIMA LUNAE Al
Before she knows that love: so mused the
king ;
‘‘T am not weary of the soul of spring,”
He said, ‘‘none happier in this causeless
chain
Of life that bears no fruit of pain,
No seed of sorrow,” yet his heart was stirred,
And, wasting no weak word
On the invulnerable air, that had
No soul of memories sad,
He passed through all the palace: in his
bowers
He stooped and kissed the flowers ;
And in his hall of audience stayed awhile,
And with a glad strange smile
Bade a farewell to all those lords of his;
And greeted with a kiss
The virgins clustered in his halls of bliss.
Next, passing through the city, gave his hand
To many a joyous band
Flower-decked that wandered through the
wanton ways
Through summer's idle days.
Last, passing through the city wall, he came
Out to the living flame
Of lambent water and the carven quay,
Stone, like embroidery !
All the dear beauty of art’s soul sublime
He looked on the last time,
And trod the figured stéps, and found the ledge
At the white water’s edge
Where the king’s pinnace lodged; but he
put by
That shell of ivory,
And chose a pearl-inwoven canoe, whose
prow
Bore the moon’s own bright brow
In grace of silver sculptured ; and therein
He stepped; and all the water thin
Laughed to receive him ; now the city faded
Little by little into many-shaded
Clusters of colour. So his boat was drawn
Subtly toward the dawn
With little labour; and the lake dropped
down
From the orb’s utter crown
O’er the horizon ; and the narrowing sides
Showed him the moving tides
And pearling waters of a tinier stream
Than in a maiden’s dream
She laves her silken limbs in, and is glad.
Then did indeed the fountains change their
tune,
Sliding from gold sun-clad
To silver filigree wherethrough the moon
Shines—for the subtle soul
Of music takes on shape, and we compare
The cedar’s branching hair,
The comet’s glory, and the woman’s smile,
To strange devices otherwise not heard
Without the lute’s own word.
So on the soul of Zohra grew
A fashioned orb of fiery dew:
Yet (as cool water on a leaf)
It touched his spirit not with grief,
Although its name was sorrow.
‘*Q for a name to borrow ”
(He mused) ‘‘ some semblance for this subtle
sense
Of new experience !
For on my heart, untouched, my mind not
used :
To any metre mused,
Save the one tranquil and continuous rhyme
Of joy exceeding time, |
Here the joy changes, but abides for ever,
Here on the shining river |
Where the dusk gathers, and tall trees begin
To wrap the shallop in,
Sweet shade not cast of sun or moon or
star,
But of some light afar
Softer and sweeter than all these—what light
Burns past the wondrous night
Of yonder crags ?—what riven chasm hides
In those mysterious sides?
Somewhere this stream must leap
Down vales divinely steep
Into some vain unprofitable deep !”’
So mused the king.
moon shone!
Nay, but a little past the full, she rose
An hour past sunset : as some laughter gone,
After the bride’s night, lost in subtler snows
Mark you, the full