I struggled with the horror of daybreak . . .

Half open his eyes were, and held me, dull with the smoke of their dreams;

The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell . . .

The island dreams under the dawn And great boughs drop tranquillity . . . Here we will moor our lonely ship And wander ever with woven hands, Murmuring softly lip to lip, Along the grass, along the sands, Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:

Let me gaze on thee, At arm's length thus; till dumb eternity Has rolled away the stars and dried the sea I could gaze, gaze upon thine eyes of grey; Gaze on till ragged Time himself decay.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams; Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

. . . always when I look death in the face, When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, Suddenly I meet your face.

But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow Whither her footsteps go.

I carry the sun in a golden cup, The moon in a silver bag.

Sickness brought me this Thought, in that scale of his: Why should I be dismayed Though flame had burned the whole World, as it were a coal, Now I have seen it weighed Against a soul?

This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.

The last stroke of midnight dies. All day in the one chair From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged In rambling talk with an image of air: Vague memories, nothing but memories.

His eyelids droop, his head falls low, His old eyes cloud with dreams; The sun upon all things that grow Falls in sleepy streams.

You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, And bind up your long hair and sigh; And all men's hearts must burn and beat; And candle-like foam on the dim sand, And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, Live but to light your passing feet.