The Equinox (Volume I, Number IX)

THE EQUINOX O Rose eclipsed! O Rose! my Rose of Roses! The night is pale to death : the lyre reposes Under the star-shot glamour of the moon, And all her palest roses. XVII THE RED TRIANGLE TuE eye of Fate is closed; the olden doom Lies in the wrack of things. There is no sign; Only the wind cries through the lonely woods, And the barren motherhood of the world is manifest Shamelessly; in the dank, pale, autumn woods The fallen leaves lie squelching under the feet Of the desolate gnomes: and now the birds are silent, And the streams are sluggish in the veins of the world. Dark gray and cloudy, the skies no more are blue, And grayness reigning solitary makes music Drearily on the wind-harp. The dripping rain Soddens the earth, and the stones lie thick and wet Among the leaves ; and the trees wave naked arms In despair to the sky. The light is quickly dying, And there is no more day ; the dull red sun, A sore and aching eye in a face of gray, Droops down to slumber. All the world seems dead. Rose! Rose! Where art thou? Omy Rose! my Rose! My secret Rose! Art lost among the gray? There is no voice in the silence; in the woods The brownness glistens under the weeping rain,