The actor on his little stage

Struts with a mimic rage.—

Across my page

My passion in his form shall tower from age to age.

What he so crudely dreams

In vague and fitful gleams,

The crowd esteems.—

Well! let the future judge, if his or mine this seems—

This calm Titanic mould

Stalking in colours bold

Fold upon fold—

This lord of dark, this dream I dreamed of old!

Garbed in flowing folds of light,

Azure, emerald, rose, and white,

Watchest thou across the night.

Crowned with splendor is thine head:

All the princes great and dead

Round thy limbs their state have shed—

Calm, immutable to stand—

Gracious head and poisÈd hand—

O’er the years that flow like sand.

A place for giant heads to take their rest

Seems her pale breast.

Her sweeping robe trails like the cloud and wind

Storms leave behind.

The ice of the year, and its Aprilian part,

Sleep in her heart.

Wherefore, small marvel that her footsteps be

Like strides of Destiny!

O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing—

Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head—

Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going—

Or goest thou toward the dead?

So calm thy solemn steps, so slow the long lines sweeping

Of garments pale and ghostly, of limbs as grave as sleep—

I know not if thou, spectre, hast love or death in keeping,

Or goest toward which deep.

Thou layest thy robes aside with gesture large and flowing—

Is it for love or sleep—is it for life or death?

I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going,

And thy breath be my breath.

From an infinite distance, the ghostly music!

Few and slender the tones, of delicate silver,

As stars are broidered on the veil of evening....

He passes by, the flute and the dreaming player—

Slow are his steps, his eyes are gravely downcast;

His pale robes sway in long folds with his passing.

Out of the infinite distance, a ghostly music

Returns—in slender tones of delicate silver,

As stars are broidered on the veil of evening.