Iii

How very still this odorous, dim space Amid the pines! the light is reverent, Pausing as one who stands with meek intent On thresholds of an everlasting place. A single iris waits in weary grace-- Her countenance before the dawning bent, As Faith might linger, husht and innocent, With all an altar’s glory on her face.

But silence now is hateful: I would be, By midnight dark and wild as Satan’s soul, Where the winds’ unreturning charioteers Lash, with the hurtling scourges of the sea, Their frantic steeds to some tempestuous goal-- The deep’s enormous music in their ears.