Slowly the torches die. They echo long, These last notes of a Bacchanalian song, Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep, --Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep. In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skies Still, far away, a fervent red light glows. Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes, Caress them like a laughing summer rose, And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight. A harp sobs out its crystal syruppings; Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings, Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly Beating against the barriers of night.
Then from the Ocean came the Syren song, Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh, Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong; Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seem Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream.
Bound by the silver fetters of your voice To this new slavery of dreams, We, listening, rejoice. The magic strains Swell in this darkness star-devoid. The music streams Upon the world in patterns passionate yet clear, And stains Each soul. The mind, decoyed By thoughts that grind and tear Away old values, Is sent down other thoughts So subtly swift, That in their fleeting passage They can cut adrift our souls Upon a sea of wonder and of fear. Within the arid minds of men This music sounds but once, for then They hear no other song. In it, tumultuous rush of wings, The glamour of old lovely things In deserts buried long, The grace of beasts that bound and leap With movements blithe and strong --Of those that creep Away in hissing-reptile rage-- All these, all these are found. They hear The secrets, solved, of each dead age, Each mystery is clear. For in this music's flow, the din Of spheres that tear and speed and spin Through pulsing space is heard, And all things men have loved and feared Are mirror'd in each sound.
Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers, Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seas To turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers, Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees.
Misted and golden as the hanging moon, That like a summer fruit floats from the sky, Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune, --Nor will it let you pass our beauty by. But if it should not reach to stir your mind, Then hold a summer rose against the ear, Till through its crimson sweetness you can hear The falling flow of rhythm--so designed That from this secret island, like a star Shining above a shrouded world, our song Cleaves through the darkest night and echoes long, Bidding you follow whether near or far. Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam, Lashing their tails across the calm, or dive To groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roam Beneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or drive Some slow sea-monster to its musselled home. Here, as a ladder, they climb up and down The rainbow's steep refracted steps of light, Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown, They quiver back to us in silver flight. The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bring Rich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing. Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memories That cling about us like the fumes of wine With myriad love-enhancing mysteries We pour out in one song--intense--divine, Down the deep moonlit chasms of the waves Our song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seek To goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slaves Who search each sweeping line of bay and creek, Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or find The limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind? Thus always you must search the cruel sea, For if you find us mankind shall be free!