Sibylline

THERE is a glory in the apple boughs Of silver moonlight; like a torch of myrrh, Burning upon an altar of sweet vows, Dropped from the hand of some wan worshipper: And there is life among the apple blooms Of whisp’ring winds; as if a god addressed The flamen from the sanctuary glooms With secrets of the bourne that hope hath guessed, Saying: ‘Behold! a darkness which illumes, A waking which is rest.’ There is a blackness in the apple trees Of tempest; like the ashes of an urn Hurt hands have gathered upon blistered knees, With salt of tears, out of the flames that burn: And there is death among the blooms, that fill The night with breathless scent,—as when, above The priest, the vision of his faith doth will Forth from his soul the beautiful form thereof,— Saying: ‘Behold! a silence never still; The other form of love.’