The dome of heaven is like one drop of dew, Quivering and clear and cloudless but for one Crisp bouldered Alpine range that blinds the blue With snowy gorges glittering to the sun: Forward the runners lean, with outstretched hand Waiting the word--ah, how the light relieves The silken rippling muscles as they start Spurning the yellow sand, Then skimming lightlier till the goal receives The winner, head thrown back and lips apart.
Now at the sea-marge on the sand they lie At rest for a moment, panting as they breathe, And gazing upward at the unbounded sky While the sand nestles round them from beneath; And in their hands they gather up the gold And through their fingers let it lazily stream Over them, dusking all their limbs' fair white, Blotting their shape and mould, Till, mixed into the distant gazer's dream Of earth and heaven, they seem to sink from sight.
But one, in seeming petulance, oppressed With heat has cast his brown young body free: With arms behind his head and heaving breast He lies and gazes at the cool bright sea; So young Leander might when in the noon He panted for the starry eyes of eve And whispered o'er the waste of wandering waves, "Hero, bid night come soon!" Nor knew the nymphs were waiting to receive And kiss his pale limbs in their cold sea-caves.
Now to their feet they leap and, with a shout, Plunge through the glittering breakers without fear, Breast the green-arching billows, and still out, As if each dreamed the arms of Hero near; Now like three sunbeams on an emerald crest, Now like three foam-flakes melting out of sight, They are blent with all the glory of all the sea; One with the golden West; Merged in a myriad waves of mystic light As life is lost in immortality.
Backward she leans, as when the rose unblown Slides white from its warm sheath some morn in May! Under the sloping waist, aslant, her zone Clings as it slips in tender disarray; One knee, out-thrust a little, keeps it so Lingering ere it fall; her lovely face Gazes as o'er her own Eternity! Those armless radiant shoulders, long ago Perchance held arms out wide with yearning grace For Adon by the blue Sicilian sea.
No; thou eternal fount of these poor gleams, Bright axle-star of the wheeling temporal skies, Daughter of blood and foam and deathless dreams, Mother of flying Love that never dies, To thee, the topmost and consummate flower, The last harmonic height, our dull desires And our tired souls in dreary discord climb; The flesh forgets its pale and wandering fires; We gaze through heaven as from an ivory tower Shining upon the last dark shores of Time.