I. TO THE UNKNOWN EROS.
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hat rumour'd heavens are theseWhich not a poet sings,O, Unknown Eros? What this breezeOf sudden wingsSpeeding at far returns of time from interstellar spaceTo fan my very face,And gone as fleet,Through delicatest ether feathering soft their solitary beat,With ne'er a light plume dropp'd, nor any traceTo speak of whence they came, or whither they depart?And why this palpitating heart,This blind and unrelated joy,This meaningless desire,That moves me like the ChildWho in the flushing darkness troubled lies,Inventing lonely prophecies,Which even to his Mother mildHe dares not tell;To which himself is infidel;His heart not less on fireWith dreams impossible as wildest Arab Tale,(So thinks the boy,)With dreams that turn him red and pale,Yet less impossible and wildThan those which bashful Love, in his own way and hour,Shall duly bring to flower?O, Unknown Eros, sire of awful bliss,What portent and what Delphic word,Such as in form of snake forebodes the bird,Is this?In me life's even floodWhat eddies thus?What in its ruddy orbit lifts the blood,Like a perturbed moon of Uranus,Reaching to some great world in ungauged darkness hid;And whenceThis rapture of the senseWhich, by thy whisper bid,Reveres with obscure rite and sacramental signA bond I know not of nor dimly can divine;This subject loyalty which longsFor chains and thongsWoven of gossamer and adamant,To bind me to my unguess'd want,And so to lie,Between those quivering plumes that thro' fine ether pant,For hopeless, sweet eternity?What God unhonour'd hitherto in songs,Or which, that nowForgettest the disguiseThat Gods must wear who visit human eyes,Art Thou?Thou art not Amor; or, if so, yon pyre,That waits the willing victim, flames with vestal fire;Nor mooned Queen of maids; or, if thou'rt she,Ah, then, from TheeLet Bride and Bridegroom learn what kisses be!In what veil'd hymnOr mystic danceWould he that were thy Priest advanceThine earthly praise, thy glory limn?Say, should the feet that feel thy thoughtIn double-center'd circuit run,In that compulsive focus, Nought,In this a furnace like the sun;And might some note of thy renownAnd high behestThus in enigma be expressed:'There lies the crownWhich all thy longing cures.Refuse it, Mortal, that it may be yours!It is a Spirit, though it seems red gold;And such may no man, but by shunning, hold.Refuse it, till refusing be despair;And thou shalt feel the phantom in thy hair.'
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