Song Triumphant


Magic, magic beneath a wind-flower moon.
Frail, white, and virgin-shy:
Magic as of some ghostly Druid rune,
Some breathing wraith of enigmatic song,
Droops pallidly upon me as I lie
Soul-shelterless to the wan vesper sky;
Droops mystically upon me —a Lamian tune,
Secretly humming, as a smitten gong
Troubles the silence when its crashings cease.
So now the soul of peace
Stirs with inaudible pulsation — stirs
To these dumb intricacies
The haunted hours like fearful whisperers


The wind-flower moon snatched from its tenuous stem
Falls, blown from heaven; the sky is dark with dread . . .
And now the sudden stars are overhead,
Song’s diadem!


I am fulfilled of song!
No other life save song-life quickens me.
My soul is cadenced as the strophied sea!
My heart-beats but prolong
The intricate rhythms of eternity! I am a voice, a singing voice — no more.
Life is a lyric, for life is a dream;
And all prophetic lore
Is but a rhyme the more.


Truth, truth, ye cry!
But I
Seek not to fix the colored spray,
Seek not to stay
Wave, wind, or gradual star:
Is mutable as these things are.
Yet the vast sway,
The under-rhythm — God’s pulse-beat — shall not fail.
God’s song above God’s silence shall prevail.