THE SISTERS. WE were two daughters of one race: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. She died she went to burning flame: The wind is howling in turret and tree. I made a feast; I bade him come; Upon my lap he laid his head: O the Earl was fair to see! I kiss'd his eyelids into rest : The wind is raging in turret and tree. I rose up in the silent night: I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, I wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to see! ΤΟ WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I SEND you here a sort of allegory, And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder'd without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be THE PALACE OF ART. I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself And while the world runs round and round," I said, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which my soul made answer readily: In this great mansion, that is built for me, Four courts I made, East, West, and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, From those four jets four currents in one swell In misty folds, that floating as they fell And high on every peak a statue seem'd A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon While this great bow will waver in the sun, For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, Full of long-sounding corridors it was, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, For some were hung with arras green and blue, Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew One seem'd all dark and red a tract of sand, One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. And one, a full-fed river winding slow Behind And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, |