  TO DOROTHY SHAKESPEAR Mine eyes have seen the veiled bride of the night, Before whose footsteps souls of men are blown, As are dead leaves, about the wind's swift feet. Wherefore great sorrow cometh through my song: A wind of grieving, through the branches wet, When all the alleys of the woods are lit With yellow leaves, and sere, and full of sighs. Through the bare woods she came, and pools of light Were darkened at her coming; and a moan Broke from the shuddering boughs, and all the fleet Leaves whirled about her passage, with the throng Of her lamenting ghosts, who cried regret, And passed as softly as the bats that flit Down silent ways, beneath the clouded skies. Great peace she hath, and dreams for her delight, Wherewith she weaves upon the Looms of Stone, Choosing such colours as she deemeth meet, Gold, blue, and vermeil skeins; and there among Her spools of weaving threads, her dreams beget Life, from her nimble fingers and quick wit, Mirrored in mortal life, which fades and dies. These are made whole and perfect in the bright Broideries of her hands, while by her throne Move unborn hours, which in her cave discrete She hideth, though her secret thoughts prolong Soft moments mortal hearts so soon forget, Bright, supple forms, with swift limbs strongly knit, Moving as light in dance as melodies. Go, thou, my song! Tell her, though weeping, yet Her face is mine: such joy have I in it I cannot shut the splendour from mine eyes. |
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