ROSA IGNOTA
Along the barren waste thine echoing cry.
And all the sky
Is a chalice of white lilies rimmed with blood,
With blood ; and the bitter flood
Of thy tears is dying away, away, away,
Beyond the hills, the hidden hills of day.
These are but lilies, O my silent god ;
Where thy feet have trod
Upon the earthly way
They have sprung,
And the songs that have been sung
Are faded with the day.
My little heap of ashes, thou wast god,
Yea, utterly wast thou god!
So there are no more roses, no more roses ;
There shall be no more songs to thee,
Lord of the lilies and the silent sea
Of Time.
No rime
This night brings to thee: closes
The hour in dusk; there is no song sung to thee,
And thou art fled from all thy toil, set free... .
IX
THE DESCENT INTO MATTER
Yea! All the veils of the spirit come to this—
To this, that they are veils of thee, of thee;
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