Three velvet petals darkly spread
In sumptuous sorrow for the dead,
Superbly sombre as a pall
Wrought for an elfin funeral;
Two, hued like wings of silver light
Unfurled for Psyche's heavenward flight;
And every petal, o'er and o'er,
All legended with faery lore,
A palimpsest of fables old
And mythic stories manifold.
Endymion in enchanted swoon
Tranced by the melancholy moon;
And, hovering near, the crescent-crowned
Diana, with her sylvan hound;—
The virgin huntress, proud and pale,
Betrayed to passion's blissful bale,
Till all her beautiful disdain
Is lost in love's imperial pain.
Sad, star-eyed Lamia's serpent spell,
And the wild dirge of Isabel.
Hyperion in his palace bright,
Bastioned with pyramids of light,
Kindling the dawn with fiery breath,
Battling with Darkness and with Death,—
The pregnant fable left half told,—
A fading blush of morning gold.
The story of St. Agnes' Eve,
The tale where legioned fairies weave
Their spells within the moonlit gloom
Of Madeline's enchanted room.
The casement, triple-arched and high,
Enwrought with antique tracery,—
The blazoned window's gorgeous panes
That blush with old heraldic stains;
The broidered kirtle on the floor,
The jeweled casket's gleaming store;
The chamber, silken, hushed and chill,
Where Madeline lies dreaming still,
Lost in the lap of legends old,
And curtained from the moonlight cold,
Till, lowly kneeling at her side,
The minstrel-lover woos his bride.
I hear afar the wassail roar
Surge through the distant corridor,
As through the ancient, bannered halls
The midnight music swells and falls;
The castle lamps are all aglow;
The silver-snarling trumpets blow.
'T was ages, ages long ago,
The vigil of St. Agnes' Night,
The ruse, the revel, and the flight;
But, till love's faery lore be past,
The charm of Agnes' Eve shall last.
The poet sleeps, and pansies bloom
Beside his far Italian tomb;
The turf is heaped above his bed;
The stone is moldering at his head;
But each fair creature of his dream,
Transferred to daylight's common beam,
Lives the charmed life that waneth never,
A Beauty and a Joy forever.
In sumptuous sorrow for the dead,
Superbly sombre as a pall
Wrought for an elfin funeral;
Two, hued like wings of silver light
Unfurled for Psyche's heavenward flight;
And every petal, o'er and o'er,
All legended with faery lore,
A palimpsest of fables old
And mythic stories manifold.
Endymion in enchanted swoon
Tranced by the melancholy moon;
And, hovering near, the crescent-crowned
Diana, with her sylvan hound;—
The virgin huntress, proud and pale,
Betrayed to passion's blissful bale,
Till all her beautiful disdain
Is lost in love's imperial pain.
Sad, star-eyed Lamia's serpent spell,
And the wild dirge of Isabel.
Hyperion in his palace bright,
Bastioned with pyramids of light,
Kindling the dawn with fiery breath,
Battling with Darkness and with Death,—
The pregnant fable left half told,—
A fading blush of morning gold.
The story of St. Agnes' Eve,
The tale where legioned fairies weave
Their spells within the moonlit gloom
Of Madeline's enchanted room.
The casement, triple-arched and high,
Enwrought with antique tracery,—
The blazoned window's gorgeous panes
That blush with old heraldic stains;
The broidered kirtle on the floor,
The jeweled casket's gleaming store;
The chamber, silken, hushed and chill,
Where Madeline lies dreaming still,
Lost in the lap of legends old,
And curtained from the moonlight cold,
Till, lowly kneeling at her side,
The minstrel-lover woos his bride.
I hear afar the wassail roar
Surge through the distant corridor,
As through the ancient, bannered halls
The midnight music swells and falls;
The castle lamps are all aglow;
The silver-snarling trumpets blow.
'T was ages, ages long ago,
The vigil of St. Agnes' Night,
The ruse, the revel, and the flight;
But, till love's faery lore be past,
The charm of Agnes' Eve shall last.
The poet sleeps, and pansies bloom
Beside his far Italian tomb;
The turf is heaped above his bed;
The stone is moldering at his head;
But each fair creature of his dream,
Transferred to daylight's common beam,
Lives the charmed life that waneth never,
A Beauty and a Joy forever.