G .
H . Luce .
Your silver
hinges
now
revolve ,
Your
snowy
citadels
unfold ,
And , lest their pride
too
soon
dissolve ,
Buckle
them
with
a belt of
gold .
O
sprawling domes,
0
tottering towers,
O
frail
steel
tissue
of
the sun
What ! Have
ye
numbered
all
your hours
And
is
your
empire
all foredone
?
ON
AN
AMORPHOUS
BLUE
VASE
,
WITH
FLOWERS
,
ETC
.,
ON
IT
.
A
PORCELAIN
sky
And
even
the winds
are
blue
with
thunder
;
And
the
high
shadows nerve
themselves
in
wonder
Whether
they
float
or
fly
.
What
sea
-
swept
star
,
What
planet
,
torn
but insolent
,
Has built
those
moonlight
sunflowers dominant
O'
er
waste worlds wide
and
far
?
105