Again before thee winding, O Sun, at length,--
At length, thou call'st me from the wintry deep!
With cornucopian Fire thou giv'st me strength,
Caresses and golden hours and grace of sleep.
My filial song I weave with theirs who roll
Afar or close, past thy celestial face,
My sister lamps that o'er the Zodiac's scroll
From fane to fane in adoration pace.
The rapt Equator's crimson cincture holds
Me close; my emerald ocean-robes flow free,
And purple soar my mountains, folds on folds,
With vale and plain. My bondmaid Moon to me
Reveals her marbled snow in cusp and shale--
Whilst in my flinty womb the valiant strife
Of Fire proclaims me thine and bans the pale
Usurper Death beyond my fields of Life.
In Winds that wrap my path, lo, I shall sing
To thee a choral eternal, Lord of Days,
And Life with myriad hearts in me shall sing
Thy glory to scan forever, and chant thy praise.
The wrinkled Moon, charred by the fires of her brief youth, sits
serene above the rose-blown round of Earth.
Like an aged beldam she crouches in the heavens, ashes upon
her head, weaving her ancient silver magic, spelling enchantment
upon the nether Sea.
She is a sybil in whom the wisdom of the worlds is garnered up.
Her eyelids are heavy with the poppy.
She smiles and spins in sunlight and in shadow, weaving robes
of slumber for her mistress. She holds her shining disk on
high as a mirror for her queen.
Her song is such as the watchers sing that sit by the couches
of birth and death.