Page:The Yellow Book - 13.djvu/64

54 The spirit waning to its hour extreme,
 * That faith and joy and peace may never know,
 * Away with it to death without a dream!

The last faint notes that falter in the flow
 * Of dying strains, and dying hope s last gleam,
 * Last breath, last love — O let them, let them go!

Where at the precipice's foot the wave
 * Ceaseless with sullen monotone doth roar,
 * And the wild wind flies plaining to the shore,

Be my dead heart committed to the grave. There let the suns with fiery torrents lave
 * The parching dust, till summer shines no more,
 * And eddies of dry sand incessant soar

Around, when whirlblasts of the winter rave. And with its own undoing be undone,
 * And with its viewless motes enforced to flit,
 * Rapt far away upon the hurricane,

All sighs and strifes that idly cumbered it,
 * And idlest Love, sunk to oblivion
 * In bosom of the barren bitter main.

This sable steed, whose hoofs with clangour smite
 * My sense, while dreamful shade on earth is cast,
 * Onward in furious gallop thundering past

In the fantastic alleys of the night,

Rh