Fulfilled with breath of a god's own hymn,
Again shall be this bare blank cell,
Made sweet again with him.


XXVIII

Spring darkens before us,
A flame going down,
With chant from the chorus
Of days without crown--
Cloud, rain, and sonorous
Soft wind on the down.

She is wearier not of us
Than we of the dream
That spring was to love us
And joy was to gleam
Through the shadows above us
That shift as they stream.

Half dark and half hoary,
Float far on the loud
Mild wind, as a glory
Half pale and half proud
From the twilight of story,
Her tresses of cloud;

Like phantoms that glimmer
Of glories of old