Kitabı oku: «Poems», sayfa 9

THE ROSICRUCIAN

I

 
  The tripod flared with a purple spark,
  And the mist hung emerald in the dark:
  Now he stooped to the lilac flame
    Over the glare of the amber embers,
  Thrice to utter no earthly name;
    Thrice, like a mind that half remembers;
  Bathing his face in the magic mist
  Where the brilliance burned like an amethyst.
 

II

 
  "Sylph, whose soul was born of mine,
  Born of the love that made me thine,
  Once more flash on my eyes! Again
    Be the loved caresses taken!
  Lip to lip let our forms remain!—
    Here in the circle sense, awaken!
  Ere spirit meet spirit, the flesh laid by,
  Let me touch thee, and let me die."
 

III

 
  Sunset heavens may burn, but never
  Know such splendor! There bloomed an ever
  Opaline orb, where the sylphid rose
    A shape of luminous white; diviner
  White than the essence of light that sows
    The moons and suns through space; and finer
  Than radiance born of a shooting-star,
  Or the wild Aurora that streams afar.
 

IV

 
  "Look on the face of the soul to whom
  Thou givest thy soul like added perfume!
  Thou, who heard'st me, who long had prayed,
    Waiting alone at morning's portal!—
  Thus on thy lips let my lips be laid,
    Love, who hast made me all immortal!
  Give me thine arms now! Come and rest
  Weariness out on my beaming breast!"
 

V

 
  Was it her soul? or the sapphire fire
  That sang like the note of a seraph's lyre?
  Out of her mouth there fell no word—
    She spake with her soul, as a flower speaketh.
 
 
  Fragrant messages none hath heard,
    Which the sense divines when the spirit seeketh….
  And he seemed alone in a place so dim
  That the spirit's face, who was gazing at him,
  For its burning eyes he could not see:
  Then he knew he had died; that she and he
  Were one; and he saw that this was she.
 

THE AGE OF GOLD

 
  The clouds that tower in storm, that beat
    Arterial thunder in their veins;
  The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet,
    Their perfect faces from the plains,—
  All high, all lowly things of Earth
  For no vague end have had their birth.
 
 
  Low strips of mist that mesh the moon
    Above the foaming waterfall;
  And mountains, that God's hand hath hewn,
    And forests, where the great winds call,—
  Within the grasp of such as see
  Are parts of a conspiracy;
 
 
  To seize the soul with beauty; hold
    The heart with love: and thus fulfill
  Within ourselves the Age of Gold,
    That never died, and never will,—
  As long as one true nature feels
  The wonders that the world reveals.
 

BEAUTY AND ART

 
  The gods are dead; but still for me
    Lives on in wildwood brook and tree
  Each myth, each old divinity.
 
 
  For me still laughs among the rocks
    The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks
  Drop perfume on the wildflower flocks.
 
 
  The Satyr's hoof still prints the loam;
    And, whiter than the wind-blown foam,
  The Oread haunts her mountain home.
 
 
  To him, whose mind is fain to dwell
    With loveliness no time can quell,
  All things are real, imperishable.
 
 
  To him—whatever facts may say—
    Who sees the soul beneath the clay,
  Is proof of a diviner day.
 
 
  The very stars and flowers preach
    A gospel old as God, and teach
  Philosophy a child may reach;
 
 
  That cannot die; that shall not cease;
    That lives through idealities
  Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.
 
 
  That lifts the soul above the clod,
    And, working out some period
  Of art, is part and proof of God.
 

THE SEA SPIRIT

 
  Ah me! I shall not waken soon
  From dreams of such divinity!
  A spirit singing 'neath the moon
              To me.
 
 
  Wild sea-spray driven of the storm
  Is not so wildly white as she,
  Who beckoned with a foam-white arm
              To me.
 
 
  With eyes dark green, and golden-green
  Long locks that rippled drippingly,
  Out of the green wave she did lean
              To me.
 
 
  And sang; till Earth and Heaven seemed
  A far, forgotten memory,
  And more than Heaven in her who gleamed
              On me.
 
 
  Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home;
  And death's immutability;
  And music of the plangent foam,
              For me!
 
 
  Sweep over her! with all thy ships,
  With all thy stormy tides, O sea!—
  The memory of immortal lips
              For me!
 

GARGAPHIE

"Succinctae sacra Dianae".—OVID

 
  There the ragged sunlight lay
  Tawny on thick ferns and gray
    On dark waters: dimmer,
  Lone and deep, the cypress grove
  Bowered mystery and wove
  Braided lights, like those that love
  On the pearl plumes of a dove
    Faint to gleam and glimmer.
 

II

 
  There centennial pine and oak
  Into stormy cadence broke:
    Hollow rocks gloomed, slanting,
  Echoing in dim arcade,
  Looming with long moss, that made
  Twilight streaks in tatters laid:
  Where the wild hart, hunt-affrayed,
    Plunged the water, panting.
 

III

 
  Poppies of a sleepy gold
  Mooned the gray-green darkness rolled
    Down its vistas, making
  Wisp-like blurs of flame. And pale
  Stole the dim deer down the vale:
  And the haunting nightingale
  Throbbed unseen—the olden tale
    All its wild heart breaking.
 

IV

 
  There the hazy serpolet,
  Dewy cistus, blooming wet,
    Blushed on bank and bowlder;
  There the cyclamen, as wan
  As first footsteps of the dawn,
  Carpeted the spotted lawn:
  Where the nude nymph, dripping drawn,
    Basked a wildflower shoulder.
 

V

 
  In the citrine shadows there
  What tall presences and fair,
    Godlike, stood!—or, gracious
  As the rock-rose there that grew,
  Delicate and dim as dew,
  Stepped from boles of oaks, and drew
  Faunlike forms to follow, who
    Filled the forest spacious!—
 

VI

 
  Guarding that Boeotian
  Valley so no foot of man
    Soiled its silence holy
  With profaning tread—save one,
  The Hyantian: Actæon,
  Who beheld, and might not shun
  Pale Diana's wrath; undone
    By his own mad folly.
 

VII

 
  Lost it lies—that valley: sleeps
  In serene enchantment; keeps
    Beautiful its banished
  Bowers that no man may see;
  Fountains that her deity
  Haunts, and every rock and tree
  Where her hunt goes swinging free
    As in ages vanished.
 

THE DEAD OREAD

 
  Her heart is still and leaps no more
    With holy passion when the breeze,
  Her whilom playmate, as before,
    Comes with the language of the bees,
  Sad songs her mountain cedars sing,
  And water-music murmuring.
 
 
  Her calm white feet,—erst fleet and fast
    As Daphne's when a god pursued,—
  No more will dance like sunlight past
    The gold-green vistas of the wood,
  Where every quailing floweret
  Smiled into life where they were set.
 
 
  Hers were the limbs of living light,
    And breasts of snow; as virginal
  As mountain drifts; and throat as white
    As foam of mountain waterfall;
  And hyacinthine curls, that streamed
  Like crag-born mists, and gloomed and gleamed.
 
 
  Her presence breathed such scents as haunt
    Moist, mountain dells and solitudes;
  Aromas wild as some wild plant
    That fills with sweetness all the woods:
  And comradeships of stars and skies
  Shone in the azure of her eyes.
 
 
  Her grave be by a mossy rock
    Upon the top of some wild hill,
  Removed, remote from men who mock
    The myths and dreams of life they kill:
  Where all of beauty, naught of lust
  May guard her solitary dust.
 

THE FAUN

 
  The joys that touched thee once, be mine!
    The sympathies of sky and sea,
  The friendships of each rock and pine,
    That made thy lonely life, ah me!
    In Tempe or in Gargaphie.
 
 
  Such joy as thou didst feel when first,
    On some wild crag, thou stood'st alone
  To watch the mountain tempest burst,
    With streaming thunder, lightning-sown,
    On Latmos or on Pelion.
 
 
  Thy awe! when, crowned with vastness, Night
    And Silence ruled the deep's abyss;
  And through dark leaves thou saw'st the white
    Breasts of the starry maids who kiss
    Pale feet of moony Artemis.
 
 
  Thy dreams! when, breasting matted weeds
    Of Arethusa, thou didst hear
  The music of the wind-swept reeds;
    And down dim forest-ways drew near
    Shy herds of slim Arcadian deer.
 
 
  Thy wisdom! that knew naught but love
    And beauty, with which love is fraught;
  The wisdom of the heart—whereof
    All noblest passions spring—that thought
    As Nature thinks, "All else is naught."
 
 
  Thy hope! wherein To-morrow set
    No shadow; hope, that, lacking care
  And retrospect, held no regret,
    But bloomed in rainbows everywhere,
    Filling with gladness all the air.
 
 
  These were thine all: in all life's moods
    Embracing all of happiness:
  And when within thy long-loved woods
    Didst lay thee down to die—no less
    Thy happiness stood by to bless.
 

THE PAPHIAN VENUS

 
  With anxious eyes and dry, expectant lips,
    Within the sculptured stoa by the sea,
  All day she waited while, like ghostly ships,
    Long clouds rolled over Paphos: the wild bee
  Hung in the sultry poppy, half asleep,
  Beside the shepherd and his drowsy sheep.
 
 
  White-robed she waited day by day; alone
    With the white temple's shrined concupiscence,
  The Paphian goddess on her obscene throne,
    Binding all chastity to violence,
  All innocence to lust that feels no shame—
  Venus Mylitta born of filth and flame.
 
 
  So must they haunt her marble portico,
    The devotees of Paphos, passion-pale
  As moonlight streaming through the stormy snow;
    Dark eyes desirous of the stranger sail,
  The gods shall bring across the Cyprian Sea,
  With him elected to their mastery.
 
 
  A priestess of the temple came, when eve
   Blazed, like a satrap's triumph, in the west;
 
 
  And watched her listening to the ocean's heave,
    Dusk's golden glory on her face and breast,
  And in her hair the rosy wind's caress,—
  Pitying her dedicated tenderness.
 
 
  When out of darkness night persuades the stars,
    A dream shall bend above her saying, "Soon
  A barque shall come with purple sails and spars,
    Sailing from Tarsus 'neath a low white moon;
  And thou shalt see one in a robe of Tyre
  Facing toward thee like the god Desire.
 
 
  "Rise then! as, clad in starlight, riseth Night—
    Thy nakedness clad on with loveliness!
  So shalt thou see him, like the god Delight,
    Breast through the foam and climb the cliff to press
  Hot lips to thine and lead thee in before
  Love's awful presence where ye shall adore."
 
 
  Thus at her heart the vision entered in,
    With lips of lust the lips of song had kissed,
  And eyes of passion laughing with sweet sin,
    A shimmering splendor robed in amethyst,—
  Seen like that star set in the glittering gloam,—
  Venus Mylitta born of fire and foam.
 
 
  So shall she dream until, near middle night,—
  When on the blackness of the ocean's rim
  The moon, like some war-galleon all alight
    With blazing battle, from the sea shall swim,—
  A shadow, with inviolate lips and eyes,
  Shall rise before her speaking in this wise:
 
 
  "So hast thou heard the promises of one,—
    Of her, with whom the God of gods is wroth,—
  For whom was prophesied at Babylon
    The second death—Chaldaean Mylidoth!
  Whose feet take hold on darkness and despair,
  Hissing destruction in her heart and hair.
 
 
  "Wouldst thou behold the vessel she would bring?—
    A wreck! ten hundred years have smeared with slime:
  A hulk! where all abominations cling,
    The spawn and vermin of the seas of time:
  Wild waves have rotted it; fierce suns have scorched;
  Mad winds have tossed and stormy stars have torched.
 
 
  "Can lust give birth to love? The vile and foul
    Be mother to beauty? Lo! can this thing be?—
  A monster like a man shall rise and howl
    Upon the wreck across the crawling sea,
  Then plunge; and swim unto thee; like an ape,
  A beast all belly.—Thou canst not escape!"
 
 
  Gone was the shadow with the suffering brow;
    And in the temple's porch she lay and wept,
  Alone with night, the ocean, and her vow.—
    Then up the east the moon's full splendor swept,
  And dark between it—wreck or argosy?—
  A sudden vessel far away at sea.
 

ORIENTAL ROMANCE

I

 
  Beyond lost seas of summer she
  Dwelt on an island of the sea,
  Last scion of that dynasty,
  Queen of a race forgotten long.—
  With eyes of light and lips of song,
  From seaward groves of blowing lemon,
  She called me in her native tongue,
  Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.
 

II

 
  I was a king. Three moons we drove
  Across green gulfs, the crimson clove
  And cassia spiced, to claim her love.
  Packed was my barque with gums and gold;
  Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old
  With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,—
  Than her white breasts less white and cold;—
  And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.
 

III

 
  From Bassora I came. We saw
  Her eagle castle on a claw
  Of soaring precipice, o'erawe
  The surge and thunder of the spray.
  Like some great opal, far away
  It shone, with battlement and spire,
  Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day
  Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.
 

IV

 
  Lamenting caverns dark, that keep
  Sonorous echoes of the deep,
  Led upward to her castle steep….
  Fair as the moon, whose light is shed
  In Ramadan, was she, who led
  My love unto her island bowers,
  To find her…. lying young and dead
  Among her maidens and her flowers.
 

THE MAMELUKE

I

 
  She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and slaves,
  A mameluke, he loved her.–Waves
  Dashed not more hopelessly the paves
    Of her high marble palace-stair
    Than lashed his love his heart's despair.—
  As souls in Hell dream Paradise,
    He suffered yet forgot it there
  Beneath Rommaneh's houri eyes.
 

II

 
  With passion eating at his heart
  He served her beauty, but dared dart
  No amorous glance, nor word impart.—
    Taïfi leather's perfumed tan
    Beneath her, on a low divan
  She lay 'mid cushions stuffed with down:
    A slave-girl with an ostrich fan
  Sat by her in a golden gown.
 

III

 
  She bade him sing. Fair lutanist,
  She loved his voice. With one white wrist,
  Hooped with a blaze of amethyst,
    She raised her ruby-crusted lute:
    Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit,
  Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled
    Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot
  Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold.
 

IV

 
  He stood and sang with all the fire
  That boiled within his blood's desire,
  That made him all her slave yet higher:
    And at the end his passion durst
    Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.—
  O eunuchs, did her face show scorn
    When through his heart your daggers burst?
  And dare ye say he died forlorn?
 

THE SLAVE

 
  He waited till within her tower
  Her taper signalled him the hour.
 
 
  He was a prince both fair and brave.—
  What hope that he would love her slave!
 
 
  He of the Persian dynasty;
  And she a Queen of Araby!—
 
 
  No Peri singing to a star
  Upon the sea were lovelier….
 
 
  I helped her drop the silken rope.
  He clomb, aflame with love and hope.
 
 
  I drew the dagger from my gown
  And cut the ladder, leaning down.
 
 
  Oh, wild his face, and wild the fall:
  Her cry was wilder than them all.
 
 
  I heard her cry; I heard him moan;
  And stood as merciless as stone.
 
 
  The eunuchs came: fierce scimitars
  Stirred in the torch-lit corridors.
 
 
  She spoke like one who speaks in sleep,
  And bade me strike or she would leap.
 
 
  I bade her leap: the time was short:
  And kept the dagger for my heart.
 
 
  She leapt…. I put their blades aside,
  And smiling in their faces—died.
 

THE PORTRAIT

 
  In some quaint Nurnberg maler-atelier
  Uprummaged. When and where was never clear
  Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom
  'Twas painted—who shall say? itself a gloom
  Resisting inquisition. I opine
  It is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line;
  Are they deniable?—Distinguished grace
  Of the pure oval of the noble face
  Tarnished in color badly. Half in light
  Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite
  Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn;
  Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn
  Of light, disdainful eyes and … well! no use!
  Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse
  Of patience.—Often, vaguely visible,
  The portrait fills each feature, making swell
  The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair
  Start out in living hues; astonished, "There!—
  The picture lives!" your soul exults, when, lo!
  You hold a blur; an undetermined glow
  Dislimns a daub.—"Restore?"—Ah, I have tried
  Our best restorers, and it has defied.
 
 
  Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps a ghost
  Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost;
  A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared
  Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared
  Of Nuremberg one sunny morn when she
  Passed paged to court. Her cold nobility
  Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied
  A feverish brush—her face!—Despaired and died.
 
 
  The narrow Judengasse: gables frown
  Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown,
  Neglected in a corner, long it lay,
  Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as—say,
  Retables done in tempera and old
  Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold
  Of martyrs and apostles,—names forgot,—
  Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lot
  Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance,
  'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance;
  A crucifix and rosary; inlaid
  Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed
  Niello of Byzantium; rich work,
  In bronze, of Florence: here a murderous dirk,
  There holy patens.
                        So.—My ancestor,
  The first De Herancour, esteemed by far
  This piece most precious, most desirable;
 
 
  Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well
  In the dark paneling above the old
  Hearth of the room. The head's religious gold,
  The soft severity of the nun face,
  Made of the room an apostolic place
  Revered and feared.—
      Like some lived scene I see
  That Gothic room: its Flemish tapestry;
  Embossed within the marble hearth a shield,
  Carved 'round with thistles; in its argent field
  Three sable mallets—arms of Herancour—
  Topped with the crest, a helm and hands that bore,
  Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,—
  Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,—
  A vellum volume of black-lettered text.
  Near by a taper, winking as if vexed
  With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends,
  Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.
 
 
  And then I seem to see again the hall;
  The stairway leading to that room.—Then all
  The terror of that night of blood and crime
  Passes before me.—
                      It is Catherine's time:
  The house De Herancour's. On floors, splashed red,
  Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed.
  Down carven corridors and rooms,—where couch
  And chairs lie shattered and black shadows crouch
  Torch-pierced with fear,—a sound of swords draws near—
  The stir of searching steel.
                                What find they here,
  Torch-bearer, swordsman, and fierce halberdier,
  On St. Bartholomew's?—A Huguenot!
  Dead in his chair! Eyes, violently shot
  With horror, glaring at the portrait there:
  Coiling his neck a blood line, like a hair
  Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,—
  Looking exalted visitation,—leaned
  From its black panel; in its eyes a hate
  Satanic; hair—a glowing auburn; late
  A dull, enduring golden.
                              "Just one thread
  Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said,
  "Twisting a burning ray; he—staring dead."
 

THE BLACK KNIGHT

 
  I had not found the road too short,
  As once I had in days of youth,
  In that old forest of long ruth,
  Where my young knighthood broke its heart,
  Ere love and it had come to part,
  And lies made mockery of truth.
  I had not found the road too short.
 
 
  A blind man, by the nightmare way,
  Had set me right when I was wrong.—
  I had been blind my whole life long—
  What wonder then that on this day
  The blind should show me how astray
  My strength had gone, my heart once strong.
  A blind man pointed me the way.
 
 
  The road had been a heartbreak one,
  Of roots and rocks and tortured trees,
  And pools, above my horse's knees,
  And wandering paths, where spiders spun
  'Twixt boughs that never saw the sun,
  And silence of lost centuries.
  The road had been a heartbreak one.
 
 
  It seemed long years since that black hour
  When she had fled, and I took horse
  To follow, and without remorse
  To slay her and her paramour
  In that old keep, that ruined tower,
  From whence was borne her father's corse.
  It seemed long years since that black hour.
 
 
  And now my horse was starved and spent,
  My gallant destrier, old and spare;
  The vile road's mire in mane and hair,
  I felt him totter as he went:—
  Such hungry woods were never meant
  For pasture: hate had reaped them bare.
  Aye, my poor beast was old and spent.
 
 
  I too had naught to stay me with;
  And like my horse was starved and lean;
  My armor gone; my raiment mean;
  Bare-haired I rode; uneasy sith
  The way I'd lost, and some dark myth
  Far in the woods had laughed obscene.
  I had had naught to stay me with.
 
 
  Then I dismounted. Better so.
  And found that blind man at my rein.
  And there the path stretched straight and plain.
  I saw at once the way to go.
  The forest road I used to know
  In days when life had less of pain.
  Then I dismounted. Better so.
 
 
  I had but little time to spare,
  Since evening now was drawing near;
  And then I thought I saw a sneer
  Enter into that blind man's stare:
  And suddenly a thought leapt bare,—
  What if the Fiend had set him here!—
  I still might smite him or might spare.
 
 
  I braced my sword: then turned to look:
  For I had heard an evil laugh:
  The blind man, leaning on his staff,
  Still stood there where my leave I took:
  What! did he mock me? Would I brook
  A blind fool's scorn?—My sword was half
  Out of its sheath. I turned to look:
 
 
  And he was gone. And to my side
  My horse came nickering as afraid.
  Did he too fear to be betrayed?—
  What use for him? I might not ride.
  So to a great bough there I tied,
  And left him in the forest glade:
  My spear and shield I left beside.
 
 
  My sword was all I needed there.
  It would suffice to right my wrongs;
  To cut the knot of all those thongs
  With which she'd bound me to despair,
  That woman with her midnight hair,
  Her Circe snares and Siren songs.
  My sword was all I needed there.
 
 
  And then that laugh again I heard,
  Evil as Hell and darkness are.
  It shook my heart behind its bar
  Of purpose, like some ghastly word.
  But then it may have been a bird,
  An owlet in the forest far,
  A raven, croaking, that I heard.
 
 
  I loosed my sword within its sheath;
  My sword, disuse and dews of night
  Had fouled with rust and iron-blight.
  I seemed to hear the forest breathe
  A menace at me through its teeth
  Of thorns 'mid which the way lay white.
  I loosed my sword within its sheath.
 
 
  I had not noticed until now
  The sun was gone, and gray the moon
  Hung staring; pale as marble hewn;—
  Like some old malice, bleak of brow,
  It glared at me through leaf and bough,
  With which the tattered way was strewn.
  I had not noticed until now.
 
 
  And then, all unexpected, vast
  Above the tops of ragged pines
  I saw a ruin, dark with vines,
  Against the blood-red sunset massed:
  My perilous tower of the past,
  Round which the woods thrust giant spines.
  I never knew it was so vast.
 
 
  Long while I stood considering.—
  This was the place and this the night.
  The blind man then had set me right.
  Here she had come for sheltering.
  That ruin held her: that dark wing
  Which flashed a momentary light.
  Some time I stood considering.
 
 
  Deep darkness fell. The somber glare
  Of sunset, that made cavernous eyes
  Of those gaunt casements 'gainst the skies,
  Had burnt to ashes everywhere.
  Before my feet there rose a stair
  Of oozy stone, of giant size,
  On which the gray moon flung its glare.
 
 
  Then I went forward, sword in hand,
  Until the slimy causeway loomed,
  And huge beyond it yawned and gloomed
  The gateway where one seemed to stand,
  In armor, like a burning brand,
  Sword-drawn; his visor barred and plumed.
  And I went toward him, sword in hand.
 
 
  He should not stay revenge from me.
  Whatever lord or knight he were,
  He should not keep me long from her,
  That woman dyed in infamy.
  No matter. God or devil he,
  His sword should prove no barrier.—
  Fool! who would keep revenge from me!
 
 
  And then I heard, harsh over all,
  That demon laughter, filled with scorn:
  It woke the echoes, wild, forlorn,
  Dark in the ivy of that wall,
  As when, within a mighty hall,
  One blows a giant battle-horn.
  Loud, loud that laugh rang over all.
 
 
  And then I struck him where he towered:
  I struck him, struck with all my hate:
  Black-plumed he loomed before the gate:
  I struck, and found his sword that showered
  Fierce flame on mine while black he glowered
  Behind his visor's wolfish grate.
  I struck; and taller still he towered.
 
 
  A year meseemed we battled there:
  A year; ten years; a century:
  My blade was snapped; his lay in three:
  His mail was hewn; and everywhere
  Was blood; it streaked my face and hair;
  And still he towered over me.
  A year meseemed we battled there.
 
 
  "Unmask!" I cried. "Yea, doff thy casque!
  Put up thy visor! fight me fair!
  I have no mail; my head is bare!
  Take off thy helm, is all I ask!
  Why dost thou hide thy face?—Unmask!"—
  My eyes were blind with blood and hair,
  And still I cried, "Take off thy casque!"
 
 
  And then once more that laugh rang out
  Like madness in the caves of Hell:
  It hooted like some monster well,
  The haunt of owls, or some mad rout
  Of witches. And with battle shout
  Once more upon that knight I fell,
  While wild again that laugh rang out.
 
 
  Like Death's own eyes his glared in mine,
  As with the fragment of my blade
  I smote him helmwise; huge he swayed,
  Then crashed, like some cadaverous pine,
  Uncasqued, his face in full moonshine:
  And I—I saw; and shrank afraid.
  For, lo! behold! the face was mine.
 
 
  What devil's work was here!—What jest
  For fiends to laugh at, demons hiss!—
  To slay myself? and so to miss
  My hate's reward?—revenge confessed!—
  Was this knight I?—My brain I pressed.—
  Then who was he who gazed on this?—
  What devil's work was here!–What jest!
 
 
  It was myself on whom I gazed—
  My darker self!—With fear I rose.—
  I was right weak from those great blows.—
  I stood bewildered, stunned and dazed,
  And looked around with eyes amazed.—
  I could not slay her now, God knows!—
  Around me there a while I gazed.
 
 
  Then turned and fled into the night,
  While overhead once more I heard
  That laughter, like some demon bird
  Wailing in darkness.—Then a light
  Made clear a woman by that knight.
  I saw 'twas she, but said no word,
  And silent fled into the night.