Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/274

246 III

Now moonlight builds with swift and mystic art

And makes the ruin whole—and yet not whole;

But exquisite, tho' crusht and torn apart.

Back to the temple steals its living soul

In the star-silent night; it comes all pale—

A spirit breathing beauty and delight,

And yet how stricken! Hark! I hear it wail

Self-sorrowful, while every wound bleeds white.

IV

And tho' more sad than is the nightingale

That mourns in Lykabettos' fragrant pine,

That soul to mine brings solace; nor shall fail

To heal the heart of man while still doth shine

Yon planet, doubly bright in this deep blue;

Yon moon that brims with fire these violet hills:

For beauty is of God; and God is true,

And with His strength the soul of mortal fills.

THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE