Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/226

 EAVENLY Archer, bend thy bow; Now the flame of life burns low, Youth is gone; I, too, would go.

Even Fortune leads to this: Harsh or kind, at last she is Murderess of all ecstasies.

Yet the spirit, dark, alone, Bound in sense, still hearkens on For tidings of a bliss foregone.

Sleep is well for dreamless head, At no breath astonished, From the Gardens of the Dead.

I the immortal harps hear ring, By Babylon's river languishing. Heavenly Archer, loose thy string.