The Equinox (Volume I, Number IX)

162 THE EQUINOX Dies down to dusk; The day is dim... . Hawthorn and musk. . . . The seraphim Play on the breeze : The ponds are stirred By the mysteries Of the secret Word. The lost Word floats Over the dunes In silver notes And golden tunes, And mystic runes. O secret Rose! O secret Flame! The west wind blows The secret Name Into the ears Of the wandering lights That love their fears In the summer nights, And in autumn rejoice By the haunted meres, Hearing the voice Of the seven spheres, Who are merged in the sun, Whom the moonlight frees, And whose orison The soft night-breeze Blows over the leas.