  With purple glow at even, With crimson waves at dawn, Cool bending blue of heaven, O blue lakes pulsing on; Lone haunts of wilding creatures dead to wrong; Your trance of mystic beauty Is wove into my song. I know no gladder dreaming In all the haunts of men, I know no silent seeming Like to your shore and fen; I pass and repass under Your depths of peaceful blue, You dream your wild, hushed wonder Mine aching heart into; And all the care and unrest pass away Like night’s grey, haunted shadows At the red birth of day. You lie in moon-white splendour Beneath the northern sky, Your voices soft and tender In dream-worlds fade and die, In whispering beaches, haunted bays and capes, Where mists of dawn and midnight Drift past in spectral shapes. Beside your far north beaches, Comes late the quickening spring; With soft, voluptuous speeches The summer, lingering, Fans with hot winds your breasts so still and wide, Where June, with trancÈd silence, Drifts over shore and tide. Beneath great crags the larches, By some lone, northern bay, Bend, as the strong wind marches Out of the dull, north day, Horning along the borders of the night, With icÈd, chopping waters Out in the shivering light. Here the white winter’s fingers Tip with dull fires the dawn, Where the pale morning lingers By stretches bleak and wan; Here in the glad September, When all the woods are red And gold, and hearts remember The long days that are dead; And all the world is mantled in a haze; And the wind, a mad musician, Melodious makes the days; And the nights are still, and slumber Holds all the frosty ground, And the white stars whose number In God’s great books are found, Gird with pale flames the spangled, frosty sky; By white, moon-curvÈd beaches The haunted hours go by. |
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