George William Russell (Æ).
WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty
All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
I am one with the twilights dream.
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every heart of man is rapt within the mothers
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
I am one with their hearts at rest.
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
Strayd away along the margin of the unknown
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
Word or touch from the lips beside.
Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw
From the olden fountain more than light or
peace or dream,
Such primæval being as oerfills the heart with awe,
Growing one with its silent stream.
ITS edges foamd with amethyst and rose,
Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
where the ether like a diamond glows,
Its petals fade away.
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
deep thrillsfor through it everywhere
The breath of Beauty blows.
I saw how all the trembling ages past,
Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
the hour when Beauty breathes her last
And knows herself in death.
CALL not thy wanderer home as yet
Though it be late.
Now is his first assailing of
Be still through that light knocking. The hour
Is throngd with fate.
To that first tapping at the invisible door
What shining image or voice, what
Or honied breath,
Comes forth, shall be the master of life
Even to death.
Satyrs may follow after. Seraphs
On crystal wing
May blaze. But the delicate first comer
shall be King.
They shall obey, even the mightiest,
That gentle thing.
All the strong powers of Dante were bowd
To a childs mild eyes,
That wrought within him that
From depths up to skies,
Amid the souls grave councillors
A petulant boy
Laughs under the laurels and purples, the
Who snatchd at his joy,
Ordering Caesars legions to bring him
The world for his toy.
In ancient shadows and twilights
Where childhood had strayd,
The worlds great sorrows were
And its heroes were made.
In the lost boyhood of Judas
Christ was betrayd.
Let thy young wanderer dream on:
Call him not home.
A door opens, a breath, a voice
the ancient room,
Speaks to him now. Be it dark or bright
He is knit with his doom.