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 ripened grain and full blown 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 elfins of the dew; the spirit of laughter Who haunts the wind; the god of melody Who sings within the stream, that reaches after The flow'rs that rock themselves to his caress: These of themselves shall shape my happiness, Whose 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 Soft music sleeps when music's voice is mute; And in the heart, when all seems black despair, Hope sits, awaiting there.