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THE EQUINOX
Dies down to dusk;
The day is dim... .
Hawthorn and musk. . . .
The seraphim
Play on the breeze :
The ponds are stirred
By the mysteries
Of the secret Word.
The lost Word floats
Over the dunes
In silver notes
And golden tunes,
And mystic runes.
O secret Rose!
O secret Flame!
The west wind blows
The secret Name
Into the ears
Of the wandering lights
That love their fears
In the summer nights,
And in autumn rejoice
By the haunted meres,
Hearing the voice
Of the seven spheres,
Who are merged in the sun,
Whom the moonlight frees,
And whose orison
The soft night-breeze
Blows over the leas.