Unto the flowers, think worthy to remember
How the dust scattered from their fading ember
Is their own sign and seal of fatherhood,
Grey seas of sorrow sun-kissed into amber.
Above me hangs the sun: horrid he hangs,
A rayless globe of hell, shooting forth fangs
Snake-wise to parch and burn my solitude,
Nor leave me quiet lamenting, with these pangs
Tearing my liver, more Promethean
Than ever Titan knew—the sunbright span
Of narrow water mocks me, brightening
Far to the indigo Ionian.
The sun hangs high, as in the Arabian tale
Enchanted palaces defy the gale,
Perched upon airy mountains, on the wing
Of genii poised, souls suffering and pale
With their long labour: wizard spire and dome
That maidens grown magicians had for home, |
Where the charmed sword and graven talisman
Held them supremely floating on the foam
Where cloudier seas innavigably roll,
Misty with elemental shape or soul,
Thin grey essential nebulz of man,
Caught in the mesh of magical control!
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