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Borne on the low lake wind there floats to me,
Out of the distant hill, a sigh of bells,
Mystic, worshipful, almost unheard,
As tho’ the past should answer me,—and I
In pagan solitude bow down my head.
From Child of the Amazons, and other poems (New York & London, Mitchell Kennerley, 1913) by Max Eastman. Copyright © Mitchell Kennerly. This poem is in the public domain.
Good-night, little bed, with your patient white pil-
low,
Your light little spread, and your blanket of yel-
low!
I wonder what leaves you so pensive to-night—
The breezes are tender, the stars are so bright,
I should think you would wrinkle a little and smile,
Midnight is come,
And thinly in the deepness of the gloom
Truth rises startle-eyed out of a tomb,
And we are dumb.
Rise, rise, aerial creature, fill the sky
With supreme wonder, and the bleak earth wash
With mystery! Pale, pale enchantress, steer
Thy flight high up into the purple blue,
Where faint the stars beholding — rain from there
Thy lucent influence upon this sphere!
I fear thee, sacred mother of the mad!