The shadow of the buttress stays
And dips its head and swims,
While moss engirdles it with grays
And greens that dew bedims.
Now, at the last, the western end,
Most miracle of all!
The groves of rock dispart and rend
Their sacred cincture-wall ;
All tunes of heaven their rapture lend
To make the waterfall.
There, steaming from the haze and mist
Where dew is dashed in spray,
Rises a halo sunrise-kissed
And kissed at close of day
From ruby unto amethyst,
Within the veil of grey.
And there within the circled light
I saw a dancing thing,
Most like the tender-leavéd night
Of moonrise seen in spring,
A shadow luminous and white
Like a ghost beckoning.
And then dim visions came to me,
Faint memories of fear:
As when the Argo put on sea
Such stories we did hear,
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