AMBERGRIS 
7 
In the last rustle of forgotten leaves. 
Over the bridges pass the throngs ;  the sound, 
Deep and insistent, penetrates the mist— 
I hear it not ;  I contemplate the wound 
Stabbed in the flanks of my dear silver Christ. 
He hangs in anguish there ;  the crown of thorns 
Pierces that palest brow ;  the nails drip blood ; 
There is the wound ;  no Mary by Him mourns, 
There is no John beside the cruel wood. 
I am alone to kiss the silver lips ; 
I rend my clothing for the temple veil ; 
My heart’s black night must act the sun’s eclipse ; 
My groans must play the earthquake, till I quail 
At my own dark imagining.  And now 
The wind is bitterer :  the air breeds snow ; 
I put my Christ away ;  I turn my brow 
Towards the south stedfastly ;  my feet must go 
Some journey of despair.  I dare not turn 
To meet the sun ;  I will not follow him : 
Better to pass where sand and sulphur burn, 
And days are hazed with heat, and nights are dim 
With some malarial poison.  Better lie 
Far and forgotten on some desert isle, 
Where I may watch the silent ships go by, 
And let them share my burden for awhile. 
Let me pass out beyond the city gate 
Where I may wander by the water still, 
And see the faint few stars immaculate 
Watch their own beauty in its depth, and chill 
Their own desire within its icy stream. 
Let me move on with vacant eyes, as one 
Lost in the labyrinth of some ill dream, 
Move and move on, and never see the sun 
Lap all the mist with orange and red gold, 
Throw some lank windmill into iron shade, 
And stir the chill canal with manifold 
Rays of clear morning ;  never grow afraid 
When he dips down beyond the far fiat land, 
Know never more the day and night apart,