O, how the light drifts from the hemlock grove,
How in the night disarmed Desires do rove!

A sister to the dumb hydrangea thou,
A mystery born of the Then and Now.

The color on thy clouded face—ah me!
Is’t from the embers that still burn in thee?

Has not the forge of suffering robbed thee of
The flame with which weak mortals feed their love?

Wilt thou, no longer fancying the light,
Conjure a virgin flame from the darkest night?

And feed it with the salvias of a soul,
That would, but yet—alas! she seeks the Whole.

The hand that broke the screen, the hearth that lied,—
Where are they? Come, the path of truth is wide.

The silvery cataracts of roaring rills
Meander in the shadows of the hills;

And their bass music,—does it not arise
From that descent that leads up to the skies?

O how disarmed Desire uprises, how—
Does not the darkness crown the Lightning’s brow?

Yet how I wish, yet how I shrink, when I
Behold thee—ah, she’s ever in mine eye!

If thy pink, blue and golden hues disclose
The secret, might not that undo the rose?

Thou sister to the dumb hydrangea, when
Will all thy sombre musings rise again?

O, how the light drifts from the hemlock grove,
How in the night disarmed Desires do rove!