SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 
   Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? 
   Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, 
Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, 
   Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, 
   Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? 
Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, 
   Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat 
   And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 
To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 
   Trod by no tropic feet? 

For always thee the fervid languid glories 
   Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; 
   Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs 
Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, 
   The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave 
   That knows not where is that Leucadian grave 
Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. 
   Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, 
   The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear 
Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, 
   Blind gods that cannot spare. 

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, 
   Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: 
   Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, 
Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other 
   Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; 
   The hidden harvest of luxurious time, 
Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; 
   And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep 
   Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; 
And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, 
   Seeing as men sow men reap. 

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, 
   That were athirst for sleep and no more life 
   And no more love, for peace and no more strife! 
Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping 
   Spirit and body and all the springs of song, 
   Is it well now where love can do no wrong, 
Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang 
   Behind the unopening closure of her lips? 
   Is it not well where soul from body slips 
And flesh from bone divides without a pang 
   As dew from flower-bell drips? 

It is enough; the end and the beginning 
   Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. 
   O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, 
For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, 
   No triumph and no labour and no lust, 
   Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. 
O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, 
   Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night 
   With obscure finger silences your sight, 
Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, 
   Sleep, and have sleep for light. 

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, 
   Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, 
   Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet 
Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, 
   Such as thy vision here solicited, 
   Under the shadow of her fair vast head, 
The deep division of prodigious breasts, 
   The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, 
   The weight of awful tresses that still keep 
The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests 
   Where the wet hill-winds weep? 

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? 
   O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, 
   Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? 
What of despair, of rapture, of derision, 
   What of life is there, what of ill or good? 
   Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? 
Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, 
   The faint fields quicken any terrene root, 
   In low lands where the sun and moon are mute 
And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers 
   At all, or any fruit? 

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, 
   O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet 
   Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, 
Some dim derision of mysterious laughter 
   From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, 
   Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, 
Some little sound of unregarded tears 
   Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes,