Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/37



THOU, sublime, who on the throne

Of eyeless Night sat, awful and alone,

Before the birth of Cronos—brooding deep

Upon the voiceless waters which asleep

Held all things circled in their gelid zone:

O Silence! how approach thy shrine

Nor falter in the listening void to raise

A mortal voice in praise,

Nor wrong with words such eloquence as thine?

Amid the fragrant forest hush,

The nightingale or solitary-thrush

May, on thy quiet breaking, give no wound;

For they such beauty bring as all redeems,

Nor fear to interrupt thy dreams

Or trouble thy Nirvana with a sound!

And though more fitting worship seem the breath

Of violets in the sequestered wood,

The zephyr that low whispereth

To the heart of Solitude,

The first unfolding of the bashful rose

That noiseless by the wayside buds and blows: