With lips that had hushed all their fury Of foam and of winds that were strewn, Of storm and of turbulent hurry, The ocean sighed; heralding soon A ship of miraculous glory, Of pearl and of fire--the moon.
And up from the East, with a slipping And shudder and clinging of light, With a loos'ning of clouds and a dipping, Outbound for the Havens of Night, With a silence of sails and a dripping, The vessel came, wonderful white.
Then heaven and ocean were sprinkled With splendor; for every sheet And spar, and its hollow hull twinkled With mother-of-pearl. And the feet Of spirits, that followed it, crinkled The billows that under it beat.
No windy white of wind-blown clouds is thine! No windy white, but low and sodden gray, That holds the melancholy skies and kills The wild song and the wild-bird. Yet, ah me! Thy melancholy skies and mournful woods, Brown, sighing forests dying that I love! Thy long, dead leaves, deep, deep about my feet, Slow, dragging feet that halt or wander on; Thy deep, sweet, crimson leaves that burn and die With silent fever of the sickened wood.
I love to hear in all thy wind-swept coignes, Rain-wet and choked with bleached and ruined weeds, The withered whisper of the many leaves, That, fallen on barren ways--like fallen hopes-- Once held so high upon the Summer's heart Of stalwart trees, now seem the desolate voice Of Earth lamenting in hushed undertones Her green departed glory vanished so.
O days, that break the wild-bird's heart, That slay the wild-bird and its songs! Why should death play so sad a part With you to whom such sweet belongs?
Why are your eyes so filled with tears, As with the rain the frozen flowers? Why are your hearts so swept with fears, Like winds among the ruined bowers?
Farewell! farewell! for she is dead, The old gray month; I saw her die: Go, light your torches round her head, The last red leaves, and let her lie.
You will not love me, sweet, When this brief year is past; Or love, now at my feet, At other feet you'll cast, At fairer feet you'll cast. You will not love me, sweet, When this brief year is past.
Now 'tis the Springtime, dear, And crocus-cups hold flame, Brimmed to the pregnant year, All bashful as with shame, Who blushes as with shame. Now 'tis the Springtime, dear, And crocus-cups hold flame.