Then I felt that the black earth was porous And rotten with dust and with bones; And I knew that the ground that now bore us Was cadaverous with death as with stones; And I saw burning eyes, heard sonorous And dolorous sighings and groans.
But the night of the tempest and thunder, The might of the terrible skies, And the fire of Hell, that,--coiled under The hollow Earth,--smoulders and sighs, And the laughter of stars and their wonder, Mingled and mixed in her eyes.
And we clomb--and the moon, old and sterile, Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar: And I yearned for her oceans of beryl, Wan mountains and cities of spar: "'Tis not well," then she said; "you're in peril Of falling and failing your star."
And we clomb--through a murmur of pinions, And rattle of talons and plumes; And a sense as of darkest dominions, Deep, lost, of the dead and their tombs, Swam round us, with all of their minions Of dreads and of dreams and of dooms.
And we clomb--till we stood at the portal Of the uttermost point of the peak; And she led, with a step more than mortal, On, upward, where glimmered a streak, A star, a presence immortal, A planet, whose light was still weak.
And we clomb--till the limbo of spirits Of lusts and of sorrows below Swung nebular; and we were near its Starred summit, its glory of glow. And we entered its light and could hear its White music of silence and snow.
Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power.
Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries can rise Within the heart when 'tis its lot To love and realize.
Of such was I, Isolt! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream.
That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed; Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed.
Above, below, on every part, A crimson shadow lay; As if the red sun streamed athwart, And sunset was alway.
I know not how; I know not when; I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair.
Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows nor sin nor wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song.