Moly

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings
A head of sultry slumber and aroma;
And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings
Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a
White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;
Between the pansy fire of the west,
And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,
This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep--
Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,
And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reap
The golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;
Let me behold how gladness gives the whole
The transformed countenance of my own soul;
Between the sunset and the risen moon,
Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company:
The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughter
That haunts the wind; the soul of melody
That sings within the stream, that reaches after
The flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress:
These of themselves shall shape my happiness,
A visible presence I shall lean upon,
Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;
The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;
How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh,
Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:--
Remembering how within the hollow lute
Sweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;
And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,
Hope with his golden hair.