94
POEMS.
One banquet which, spread under
A magic mist,
I taste, until they wonder
What light has kissed
My eyes, and where the grapes
Have hung, whose red escapes
In mounting, mantling shapes,
And heats my wrist.
A magic mist,
I taste, until they wonder
What light has kissed
My eyes, and where the grapes
Have hung, whose red escapes
In mounting, mantling shapes,
And heats my wrist.
Crowned with its rosy flowers,
Pouring its wine,
Glide faithful ghosts of hours
Long dead: no sign
They show of death, or chill,
But glowing, smiling still,
Love's utmost joy fulfil
At word of mine.
Pouring its wine,
Glide faithful ghosts of hours
Long dead: no sign
They show of death, or chill,
But glowing, smiling still,
Love's utmost joy fulfil
At word of mine.
And ringeth through my garden,
The tireless pace
Of silver-mailed warden,
With eastward face,
Who calmly bides the night,
And in each first, red light,
Reads prophecy aright
Of that day's grace,
The tireless pace
Of silver-mailed warden,
With eastward face,
Who calmly bides the night,
And in each first, red light,
Reads prophecy aright
Of that day's grace,
When guests that are unbidden
Shall all have ceased;
And thy dear arms unchidden,
My love, my priest,
Shall all have ceased;
And thy dear arms unchidden,
My love, my priest,
