BEHOLD the hour is come when stems are thrilled, And like swung censers flowers shed their fume; Now thro' the air are sounds and odours spilled; O wistful waltz within the dizzy gloom! Now like swung censers flowers shed their fume; Now like a torn heart hath the viol trilled; O wistful waltz within the dizzy gloom! Like a lone shrine the sky with sorrow is filled. Now like a torn heart hath the viol trilled, A shy heart that doth hate all dark and doom! Like a lone shrine the sky with sorrow is filled. The sun is drownéd in his blood's own spume. A shy heart that doth hate all dark and doom Drinks every drop from the waned light down-spilled. The sun is drownéd in his blood's own spume. Thy memory lights me like a monstrance filled! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON A LETTER TO LADY [MISS] MARGARET-CAVANDISH-HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD by MATTHEW PRIOR TO NIGHT by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE FIRST AMERICAN CONGRESS by JOEL BARLOW THE BLIND LEGION by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |