The Hall Of Darkness

Within her veins it beats And burns within her brain, As year by year more sad and sear Grow barren hill and plain.

Ah! over young is she Who bears within her breast More pain and woe than women know, And all of love's unrest.

Seven towers of shaggy rock Rise black to ragged skies, From out a fen where bones of men Stare with their empty eyes.

Eternal sunset pours, Around its warlock towers,-- From out its urn of beams that burn,-- Long fire-cloudy flowers.

On bat-like turrets high, And owlet battlements, Huge condors dream and vultures scream As at the battle's scents.

Within the banquet-hall, A bride, rich-robed and pale, She sits at board with men o' the sword Cased all in silver mail.

Their visors barred are drawn; Their hands are gauntletéd; And one, behold! in glittering gold Sits at the table's head.

Wild music echoes through The hollow-sounding air-- It seems, at least, a wedding feast With richness everywhere.

Wild music oozes from The ceiling, groined with white Pure pearl, and floors, like mythic shores, Of limpid chrysolite.

Silent they sit at feast, And she, whom he sits near,-- He in gold mail,--why is she pale, As one with grief and fear?

The heav'ns grow slaughter-red, Grow blood-red west and east; Seven casements high that frame the sky Flare on the blood-red feast.

Gaunt torches tall they seem, Red revel-torches seven;-- And then, behold! the hour is tolled; A great bell strikes eleven.

Silence.--The light, that makes Each plate a splash of fire,-- Gold-splintered,--dims; and softer swims The music of each lyre.

Grave Silence, like a king, At that strange feast has place; Grave Silence still as God's own will Within the deeps of space.

She leans to him in gold, And to him seems to say-- "The night grows late, my love! Why wait? Ah God! would it were day!

"Would it were day, ah God! How long is it till dawn?-- Why wear this mask?--Undo thy casque! The midnight hour comes on!"

Silent he sits, severe; Then one sonorous tower, Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms, Tolls slow the midnight hour.

Three strokes; the knights arise, The silence from them flung, Like waves that mock some hoarse sea-rock, Wild laughter moves each tongue.

Six strokes; and wailing out The music hoots away; The fiery glimmer of heaven grows dimmer, The red turns ghostly gray.

Nine strokes; and, dropping mold, The crumbling Hall is lead; The plate is rust; the feast is dust; The banqueters are dead.

Twelve strokes pound out and roll; The vast Hall heaves and waves With things that crawl from floor and wall-- Spawn of a thousand graves.

Then rattling in the night His golden visor slips-- In rotting mail a death's-head pale Kisses her loathing lips.

Then over all a voice Crying above the strife-- "Death is the Groom: this Hall, the Tomb: The Bride, behold, is Life!"