The outline of a shadowy city spread Between the garden and the distant hill-- And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still, Set like the glory on an angel's head: The light fades quivering into evening blue Behind the pine-tops on Ianiculum; The swallow whispered to the swallow "come!" And took the sunset on her wings, and flew.
One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending A ruby path between the earth and sky; Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending From where the sorrows of our singers lie; They have not found those wandering spirits yet, But seek for ever in the red sunset.
Pass upward angel wings! Seek not for these, They sit not in the cypress-planted graves; Their spirits wander over moonlit waves, And sing in all the singing of the seas; And by green places in the spring-tide showers, And in the re-awakening of flowers.
Some pearl-lipped shell still dewy with sea foam Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod; They are the earth's for evermore; fly home! And lay a daisy at the feet of God.
Night wanes; I sit in the ruin alone; Beneath, the shadow of arches falls From the dim outline of the broken walls; And the half-light steals o'er the age-worn stone From a midway arch where the moon looks through, A silver shield in the deep, deep blue.
This is the hour of ghosts that rise; --Line on line of the noiseless dead-- The clouds above are their awning spread; Look into the shadow with moon-dazed eyes, You will see the writhing of limbs in pain, And the whole red tragedy over again.
The ghostly galleys ride out and meet, The Cæsar sits in his golden chair, His fingers toy with his women's hair, The water is blood-red under his feet,-- Till the owl's long cry dies down with the night, And one star waits for the dawning light.
High over the wild sea-border, on the furthest downs to the west, Is the green grave-mound of the Norseman, with the yew-tree grove on its crest. And I heard in the winds his story, as they leapt up salt from the wave, And tore at the creaking branches that grow from the sea-king's grave. Some son of the old-world Vikings, the wild sea-wandering lords, Who sailed in a snake-prowed galley, with a terror of twenty swords. From the fiords of the sunless winter, they came on an icy blast, Till over the whole world's sea-board the shadow of Odin passed, Till they sped to the inland waters and under the South-land skies, And stared on the puny princes, with their blue victorious eyes. And they said he was old and royal, and a warrior all his days, But the king who had slain his brother lived yet in the island ways. And he came from a hundred battles, and died in his last wild quest, For he said, "I will have my vengeance, and then I will take my rest." He had passed on his homeward journey, and the king of the isles was dead; He had drunken the draught of triumph, and his cup was the isle-king's head; And he spoke of the song and feasting, and the gladness of things to be, And three days over the waters they rowed on a waveless sea. Till a small cloud rose to the shoreward, and a gust broke out of the cloud, And the spray beat over the rowers, and the murmur of winds was loud, With the voice of the far-off thunders, till the shuddering air grew warm, And the day was as dark as at even, and the wild god rode on the storm. But the old man laughed in the thunder as he set his casque on his brow, And he waved his sword in the lightnings and clung to the painted prow. And the shaft of the storm-god's quiver, flashed out from the flame-flushed skies, Rang down on his war-worn harness, and gleamed in his fiery eyes. And his mail and his crested helmet, and his hair, and his beard burned red; And they said, "It is Odin calls;" and he fell, and they found him dead. So here, in his war-guise armoured, they laid him down to his rest, In his casque with the rein-deer antlers, and the long grey beard on his breast: His bier was the spoil of the islands, with a sail for a shroud beneath, And an oar of his blood-red galley, and his battle brand in the sheath; And they buried his bow beside him, and planted the grove of yew, For the grave of a mighty archer, one tree for each of his crew; Where the flowerless cliffs are sheerest, where the sea-birds circle and swarm, And the rocks are at war with the waters, with their jagged grey teeth in the storm; And the huge Atlantic billows sweep in, and the mists enclose The hill with the grass-grown mound where the Norseman's yew-tree grows.