The Dawn

The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear, Feeling the presence of another near. Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair. When lo! the bold intruder lurking there Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid, And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.

The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou host not caught My meaning. For there lurks a thought Back of thy song. In art, all thought is wrong. Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound To nothing but sweet sound. Strike now the chords And sing of