When plumes of ancient, widowed suns,
A gleaming scene majestic runs!
What dances on the heaps of harvest
Need not from here be.
To me, the grace of lovely seems
Of teaming, sunny, low lit beams —
If partly open was her heart,
And spoken softly was her art —
From in my mind, and in my dreams.
October dims an autumn breeze,
Therein my mind, and in thy trees.
I give my soul, and life, and lease,
To know of Rome, and know of Greece.
Woman, thee, to whom my lonely rib
Has gone. Of Eden, have I
Fond and distant dreams. But thee —
And been by you have I, and with thy hand,
Which taketh from thy serpent’s tongue —
Have given me what sharply bit and stung
The face of Eden! Led was I
By you (the one who took the fruit)
Thy true and troublesome heathen!
Down came sin, and plague, and rain,
Serpent, mob, and patient pain,
When from the ancient poets sang,
And so, my spirit sings.
As if to bring the distant near,
My form is this, and this, I fear;
In heaven, have I
Soft and perfect wings?
What dreamers often do alone,
The Giver does, to each his own.
He thinks of thee, and such is so,
In ministries of frost and snow.
And naked things in heaven seem,
As dreamers, many lofty dreams.