The Equinox (Volume I, Number IX)

164 THE EQUINOX And the secret word That dies in light Is seen as a bird, As a vision heard. The sylphs that skim The upper air, Light of limb, With floating hair, Tune their lyres To the faded west, And the sacred fires, As they pass to rest, For a moment stay As a note half-heard On their homeward way As a weary bird Lingers in space. O molten air! O dying grace! O dream most rare! O fire most fair! The waves that wander Under the night, As stars that ponder The birth of light, Lift their crests To the flash of fire, And in their breasts There is born desire