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WE STOOD by the window and hearkened To the voice of the runnels sea-driven, While, northward, the mountain-heads darkened, Girt round with the clamours of heaven. One peak with the storm at his portal Loomed out to the left of his brothers: Sustained, and sublime, and immortal, A king, and the lord of the others! Beneath him a cry from the surges Rang shrill, like a clarion calling; And about him, the wind of the gorges Went falling, and rising, and falling. But I, as the roofs of the thunder Were cloven with manifold fires, Turned back from the wail and the wonder, And dreamed of old days and desires. A song that was made, I remembered— A song that was made in the gloaming Of suns which are sunken and numbered With times that my heart hath no home in. But I said to my Dream, “I am calmer Than waters asleep on the river. I can look at the hills of Kiama And bury that dead Past for ever.” “Past sight, out of mind, alienated,” Said the Dream to me, wearily sighing, “Ah, where is the Winter you mated To Love, its decline and its dying? Here, five years ago, there were places That knew of her cunning to grieve you, But alas! for her eyes and her graces; And wherefore and how did she leave you! Have you hidden the ways of this Woman, Her whispers, her glances, her power To hold you, as demon holds human, Chained back to the day and the hour? Say, where have you buried her sweetness, Her coldness for youth and its yearning? Is the sleep of your Sorrow a witness She is passed all the roads of returning? Was she left with her beauty, O lover, And the shreds of your passion about her, Beyond reach and where none can discover? Ah! what is the wide world without her?”
I answered, “Behold, I was broken, |