The still white coast at Midsummer,

Beside the still white sea,

Lay low and smooth and shining

In this year eighty-three;

The sun was in the very North,

Strange to see.

The walrus ivory lay in heaps

Half-buried in the shore,

The slow stream slid o'er unknown beds

Of golden ore,

Washings of amber to the beach

Light waves bore.

Sprays of white, like foam-flowers,

Betwixt the skies and seas,

Swayed and poised the sea-gulls

In twos and threes,

Clustered like the stars men call

Pleiades.

The white marsh-flowers, the white

marsh-grass

Shimmered amid the grey

Of the marsh-water—mirrored

Over and under, they

Stood stiff and tall and slender,

All one way.

The upper spake to the lower,

"Are ye, or do ye seem?"

Out of the dim marsh-water

Glided as in a dream

The still swans down a distance

Of moonbeam.

The willow-warbler dropped from the spray

Sweet notes like a soft spring shower,

There was a twitter of building birds

In the blackthorn bower,

All broken from bare to gossamer

In an hour.

A garden white lay all the land

In wreaths of summer snow,

The heart of the year upspringing

Swift and aglow,

In pale flame and slender stalk,

Smooth and low.

The white heath and white harebell

Let their chimes rise and fall,

The delicate sheets of wood-sorrel

Unfolded all,

For a bed of bridal—

Or a pall?

Powdered with pearl, auriculas,

And beds of snowdrop sheen,

Frostwork of saxifrage, and fair balls

Of winter green:

There was no room for foot to pass

In between.

One only pink, the fragrant bloom

Of all blooms boreal,

Every face of every flower

With looks funereal

Bent to earth, and faintly

Flowering all.

Down in the closely crowded camp

Of the fresh snowdrops lay,

Fever and famine-stricken,

None his name to say,

Sick to death, a traveller

Cast away.

Brother might be of Balder

The beautiful, the bold,

By Northern stature and by limbs'

Heroic mould,

And the uncurled faint hair

Of pale gold.

Faintly the words were uttered,

Low, betwixt moan and moan:

"Here in the wilderness,

Lost and alone,

I die, and far away,

Hast thou known?

"Fame, and story of wonder,

Wind of rumour had blown

My name to thine, my feet

Up to thy throne:

What has the world been since?—

Thee alone.

"I passed and bowed before thy face,

And once thine eyes met mine;

Once I have kissed thy hand;—

Hast thou no sign?

Here with my last sad breath

I am thine."

The white hares nibbled fearlessly

Among the tender green;

The silver foxes stayed and watched,

Quick-eyed and keen;

The little ermine soft of foot

Stole between.

But the white world changed and

quickened

To a red world, the same;

For with splendour as of sunset

And sunrise flame,

From the highest heaven to the lowest,

Midnight came.

The pulsing colours of the sky

Deepened and purified;

All glorious chords of gold and red

Struck out and died;

Stilled in one heavenly harmony

Spread out wide,

In one ethereal crimson glow;

As if the Rose of Heaven

Had blossomed for one perfect hour,

Midsummer Even,

As ever in the mystic sphere

Of stars seven.

An opening blush of purest pink,

That swiftly streams and grows

As shoreward all the liquid waste

Enkindled flows,

Every ripple of all the sea

Rose on Rose.

—Through the heavens of midnight

Came a bitter cry,

Flesh and spirit breaking,

Mortal agony;

Died away unanswered

Through the sky.—

But all the dim blue South was filled

With the auroral flame,

Far out into the southward land

Without a name

That dreamed away into the dark,—

When One came,

Suddenly came stepping,

Where the roseate rift

Of the boreal blossoms

Crossed the snowy drift

In a trailing pathway,

Straight and swift.

Her robes were full and silken,

Her feet were silken-shod,

In sweeping stately silence,

Serene she trod

The starry carpets strewing

The soft sod.

The eyes of the veronica

Looked out and far away,

A golden wreath around her head

Of light curls lay,

And rippled back a shining shower,

In bright array.

About her neck the diamonds flashed

In rivers of blue fire;

But whiter her soft shoulders than

Her white attire,

And tenderer her tender arms

Than heart's desire.

She fronted full the crimson flood

Of all the Northern space,

And all the hue of all the sky

Was in her face;

The Rose of all the World has come

To this place.

A vision of white that glowed to red

With the fire at heaven, at heart,—

Nor paused nor turned,—but straight to

him

Who lay apart,

On she came, and knelt by him,—

Here thou art!

At the first hour after midnight,

As in the eider's nest,

The weary head sank soft into

A heavenly rest;

Is it a bed of roses,—

Or her breast?

At the second hour the cold limbs

Felt comfort unaware;

Flickering, a golden glow

Warmed all the air:

Is it the hearth-flame lighted,—

Or her hair?

At the third hour, round the faint heart

Failing in chill alarms,

Is it some silken coverlet

Still wraps and warms

In close and closer clasping?—

Or her arms?

At the fourth hour, to the wan lips

There came a draught divine:

Some last reviving cup poured out

Of hallowed wine,—

Or is it breath of hers

Mixed with thine?

At the fifth hour all was dimness

Alike to him and her;

One low and passionate murmur

Still moved the air;

Is it the voice of angels,—

Or her prayer?

At the sixth hour there stirred only

The soft wave on the beach;

Two were lying stilly,

Past sound or speech,

Fair and carven faces,

Each by each.