Under the blue crystal bell
Of my reveries tired and ill,
My griefs intangible
Grow gradually still.
Plants of symbols thronging,
Lilies of pleasures of old,
The slow palms of my longing,
Bind-weeds soft, mosses cold.
Alone in the centre of them,
One rigid lily heaves
Its frail and pallid stem
Over the dolorous leaves.
And in the gleams that it pours,
Like a gradual moon, towards the bare
Blue crystal heavens, soars
Its mystical white prayer.