Page:Southern Life in Southern Literature.djvu/252

234 Here once, through an alley Titanic Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriae rivers that roll, As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole, That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole. Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, Our memories were treacherous and sere, For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year, (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber (Though once we had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn, As the star-dials hinted of morn, At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous luster was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn, Astarte s bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn.