The hollow crystal of my winter dream 
and silences, where thought for worship, white, 
shimmer'd within the icy mirror-gleam, 
vanishes down the flood of broader light. 
The royal weft of arduous device 
and starr'd with strangest gems, my shadowy pride 
and ritual of illusive artifice 
is shed away, leaving the naked side. 
No more is set within the secret shrine 
a wonder wherein day nor night has part; 
my passing makes the ways of earth divine 
with the wild splendours of a mortal heart. 
A whisper thrills the living fringe of green 
on my retreat; tiptoe the silence stands; 
the breathless morn waits till her step be seen, 
my summer bride, new life from nuptial lands. 
The hidden places of her beauty hold 
the savours shed o'er wastes of island air, 
and her crown'd body's wealth of torrid gold 
burns dusky in her summer-storm of hair. 
Her breasts in baffling curves, an upward hope, 
strain towards the lips pain'd with too eager life, 
and the rich noons faint on each lustrous slope 
where thunder-hush in the ardent brake is rife. 
I cannot tell what god is in her gaze, 
such depths of slumbrous passion drown my breath, 
but where the charmed shadow clings and stays 
Fate cowers before that high disdain of death. 
Oh, take me to thy bosom's sultry beat, 
steep all my sense in thy long breath of flame, 
oppress me with thy summer's heavy heat, 
consume all me that wears an uncrown'd name; 
burn this my flesh to a clear web of light, 
send thy keen airy spirit to search each vein, 
that the hard pulse may throb with strong delight, 
o'ermastering life and life's divinest pain. 
Then, then we twain will seek each farthest way, 
mingled in radiance over cloud and lea, 
our joy shall swell the exultant heart of day, 
our love shall tinge the rose of sky and sea. 
And we shall know the steep pride of the hills 
and the dark meditation of the wood, 
or quench our rage where the red wine-god spills 
o'er glowing rocks the madness of his blood. 
Our link'd approach shall flush the water-maid 
that dreams her limpid realm with wistful eyes, 
our noon-tide rest shall haunt her memory's shade, 
vexing her dim breast with unwonted sighs. 
And where our fiercer joys have thrill'd the earth 
shall burst hard stalks and cruel cups that keep 
strong soul of seasons dead to fill the dearth 
of lesser lives whose dream is dull with sleep. 
And gloriously our summer's reign shall end: 
in some dark pass that leads into the west, 
burnt incense-wise, each blood shall sweetly blend, 
exhaled in music from the love-slain breast, 
some eve whose dragon-dying hides the sky 
and holds the hour on its empurpled wings, 
while pallid seers proclaim the doom-day nigh 
and shuddering nations watch the death of kings. 
See now the time (O eve of smoky brown!) 
the morbid season of my close content, 
drown'd flame, broad swathes of vapour closing down 
round the clear gaze that pierces, vainly pent, 
and knows how vain the hero-death that flung 
far flame against the craven face of dark 
(poor hero-heart the minstrel summer sung, 
O brooding hidden over a bitter cark!), 
how vain! did not the hot strength of the earth 
exude in drifts of colour, dwindling 
to dimmer odour-wafts, a hearted worth 
the long-defeated tribes to altar bring. 
The unslaked caravans of vast desire 
seeking in furnace-sands some fierier rose 
with deadly heart, the red crusades of ire 
following some dusky king of mighty woes 
unto a nameless fall in distant fight 
(such only freedom from the daily mesh 
spun by the crafty lord of wrong and right); 
the pride and splendour of rebellious flesh, 
full-sated with wild honey of summer's heart, 
the golden lot of ignominy that cast 
and craved the honour of a menial part, 
to follow on bleeding feet, nor fell the last; 
how high their pyre blazed with insensate will 
that the last word of their red tale be told, 
and o'er their darkening blood, a moment, still, 
hung on horizon-wings the spirit's gold, 
the ghost of flame, in the vast crucible 
transmuted of some viewless Trismegist ? 
haply the same whose touch, inaudible, 
dissolves the lingering leaf to evening mist. 
Now with the lucid flower-cups in their hands 
that star the pale fields of Thulean spring, 
and silver from the moon-made table-lands 
of snow, the glimmering distance vanishing, 
with opals that engeal the Boreal gleam 
and diamond-drip of ether's crystal thrill 
miraculous, the cortèges of dream 
over the hills of legend gathering, fill 
the imaginary avenues of gloom 
up to the watching windows that betray 
the House of Contemplation, vaulted room 
soaring, with shade that broods above pale day; 
pale day that wastes even since mornin