The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear,
Feeling the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams
Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid
Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.
When lo! the bold intruder lurking there
Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid,
And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night
Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white
Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.
_The Muse said_, _Poet_, _nay_; _thou host not caught_
_My meaning_. _For there lurks a thought_
_Back of thy song_.
_In art_, _all thought is wrong_.
_Re-string thy lyre_; _and let the echoes bound_
_To nothing but sweet sound_.
_Strike now the chords_
_And sing of_