There lay in a vale 'twixt lone mountains

      A garden entangled with flowers,

      Where the whisper of echoing fountains

      Stirred softly the musk-breathing bowers.

      Where torrents cast down from rock-masses,

      From caverns of red-granite steeps,

      With thunders sonorous clove passes

      And maddened dark gulfs with rash leaps,

      With the dolorous foam of their leaps.

      And, oh, when the sunrays came heaping

      The foam of those musical chasms,

      With a scintillant dust as of diamonds,

      It seemed that white spirits were sweeping

      Down, down thro' those voluble chasms,

      Wild weeping in resonant spasms.

      And the wave from the red-hearted granite

      In veins rolled tumbling around;

      Meandered thro' shade-haunted forests

      Where many rock barriers did span it

      To dash it in froth and in sound:

      Where the nights with their great moons could wan it,

      Or star its dusk stillness profound.

      And here in the night would I wander

      On woodways where fragrances kissed,

      By shadows where murmurings kissed;

      And here would I tarry to ponder

      When the moon in blue vales made a mist;

      Dim in forests of rank, rocking cedars,

      Whose wildness made glad with their scent,

      Whose boughs in the tempests were bent

      Like the pennons and plumes of fierce leaders,

      In the battle all ragged and rent.

      And so when the moonshine was floating

      Far up on the mountain's bleak head,

      On the uttermost foam of the torrent,

      Would I string a wild harp while was gloating

      The moon on my blossomy bed.

      Or I lay where a fountain of blossoms

      Rained rustling from arches aloft,

      From the thick-scented arbors aloft,

      And I sang as the blossoms' white bosoms

      Pressed silk-smooth to mine and lay soft:

      I sang as their redolence stung me,

      And laughed on my blossomy couch,

      Till the fragrance and music had flung me

      Into shadows of sleep with their touch,

      The magic of exquisite touch…

      One night as I wondered and wandered

      In this my rare Aidenn of flowers,

      I saw where I lingered and pondered

      A youth cast asleep mid the bowers:

      A youth on a mantle of satin,

      A poppy-red robe in the flowers.

      So I kissed his thin eyelids full tender,

      I kissed his high forehead and pale,

      I sighed as I kissed his black splendor

      Of curls that were kissed of the gale,

      That were moved of the balm-breathing gale.

      And he woke and cried out as if haunted: —

      "Oh God! for one note of that song!

      For a sob of that languishing song!

      Whose tumult of sorrow enchanted,

      And swept my weak spirit along!"

      Than I sate me upon the red satin

      And plunged a long look in his eyes;

      I bowed on the weft of red satin

      And kindled his love with my sighs.

      With fingers of lightness set sobbing

      The chords of my harp in a song,

      Till I found that my heart was a-throbbing

      And sobbing to sing like a tongue,

      Was sobbing to mix with the song.

      Then he cried, and his dark eyes keen glistened,

      "Lost! lost! for that perilous music!

      Oh God! for that tyrannous strain!

      To which in my dreams I have listened,

      Ah, wretch! I have listened with pain!"

      And he tost on the garment of satin

      His deep raven darkness of hair,

      And the song at my lips was ungathered,

      And I sate there to marvel and stare.

      Then I wrenched from my soul a wild glory

      Of music delirious with words,

      Of music that wailed a soul's story,

      And trembled with god-uttered words,

      Or fell like the battling of swords.

      And in with it mixed all the beauty

      Of farewells and ravenous sighs,

      The heart that was broken for booty,

      Tears, rapture to know that one dies,

      Hell, heaven and laughter and cries.

      In music the heart-ache of passion,

      The terror of souls that are lost,

      Cold, dizzying anguish of dying,

      All torments that beauty could fashion,

      Hot manacles of love and their cost.

      The bliss and the fury of dashing

      A soul into riotous love,

      While the smiting of harp-chords and crashing

      Of song like the winds were enwove

      With the stars that fall sounding above.

      Ah! why did the poppy-crowned slumber

      Seal up the rare light of his eyes

      With its silver of vapory pinions,

      The creature that sung in each number,

      To nest in his tired-out eyes,

      Like a bird that is sick of the skies.

      Yet he murmured so sad and so thrilling,

      "Oh God! for a lifetime of song!

      Oh life! for a world of such song!

      For a heaven or hell and the killing,

      Mad angel or devil of song!

      Oh, the rapture engendered in throwing

      On bubbles of music and song

      A soul to the anguish of loving,

      Until like a flower, full blowing,

      It is