  Whence do you come, oh silken shapes, Across the silver sky? We come from where the wind blows And the young stars die. Why do you move so fast, so fast Across the white moon’s breast? The cruel wind is at our heels And we may not rest. Are you not weary, fleeing shapes, That never cease to flee? The forkÉd trees’ chained shadows are Less weary than we. Whither do you go, O shadow-shapes Across the ghastly sky? We go to where the wind blows And the old stars die. My head is circl’d with fire— And I think of the failing of one’s desire— And I hear outside the pitiful dropping of rain; Which is the greater pain? I yearn for the birth of the brain— Be it child of blood and pain, (I pray to endure the pain)— My heart—lo! my heart is afire With hue as of purple or Tyre— With hope of Promethean fire— And oh God! God! God! the desire For what only the Gods attain! In the white moonlight stand With every finger on a star, and feel Infinity as an engulfing wave. |
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