  The very air Has grown heroic; a few crimson leaves Have fallen here; yet not to yield their breath In pitiful sighing at so sad a fate, But royally, as with spilt blood of kings. The full life throbs exultant in my veins, Till half ashamed to wear so high a mood, Not for some splendid triumph of the soul, But simply in response to light and air, Slowly I let it fall. And later, steal Down the broad garden-walk, where cool and clear The sharp-defined white moonlight marks the path. Not the young moon that shy and wavering down Trembled through leafy tracery of the boughs In happy nights of June; the peace that wraps Me here is not the warm and golden peace Of summer afternoons that lull the soul To dreamy indolence; but strong white peace, Peace that is conscious power in repose. No fragrance floats on the autumnal air; The white chrysanthemums and asters star The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale No passion of remembrance or regret. The perfect calmness and the perfect strength My senses wrap in an enchanted robe Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest; As if indeed my spirit had drained deep Some delicate elixir of rich wine, Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns, |
|
