A PASSING YEAR.
167
There are the groves of myrrh, and diamond gleams,
Where—fair as if it erewhile floated to
Its own warm poets, in their lotus dreams,
As an ideal Aidenn, and there grew
Into reality—the Orient lies
Close to the morn 'mid birds of Paradise.
Where—fair as if it erewhile floated to
Its own warm poets, in their lotus dreams,
As an ideal Aidenn, and there grew
Into reality—the Orient lies
Close to the morn 'mid birds of Paradise.
"There ice-mailed warders keep
The gates of silence by the auroral rays
Which fall above the cold-pressed North asleep,
Like a proud, pallid Queen, in the rich blaze
Of coloured lamps, upon whose bosom weighs
A dreary vision; and there, too, the sweet,
Sun-worshipped South in languid beauty stays,
Like a sultana, caring but to meet
Her fiery lover 'mid her gorgeous bowers,
And, as his bride, be crowned with orange flowers.
The gates of silence by the auroral rays
Which fall above the cold-pressed North asleep,
Like a proud, pallid Queen, in the rich blaze
Of coloured lamps, upon whose bosom weighs
A dreary vision; and there, too, the sweet,
Sun-worshipped South in languid beauty stays,
Like a sultana, caring but to meet
Her fiery lover 'mid her gorgeous bowers,
And, as his bride, be crowned with orange flowers.
"And, over all, there moves
The phantasm of my life. With joy and dread
I see it passing, and my memory proves
Its truth to nature. Roses white and red,
Whose leaves into the winds have long been shed,
And tremulous lily-bells, and jasmine blooms
The phantasm of my life. With joy and dread
I see it passing, and my memory proves
Its truth to nature. Roses white and red,
Whose leaves into the winds have long been shed,
And tremulous lily-bells, and jasmine blooms
