[ياسمين]

And fell on gardens of the unforgiven

In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower

So like its own above that, to this hour,

It still remaineth, torturing the bee

With madness, and unwonted reverie:

In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf

And blossom of the fairy plant in grief

Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head,

Repenting follies that full long have Red,

Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,

Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:

Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light

She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:

And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,

While pettish tears adown her petals run:

And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,

And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,

Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing

Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:

And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown"

From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:

And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!

Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante!

And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever

With Indian Cupid down the holy river-

Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given

To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:

"Spirit! that dwellest where,

In the deep sky,

The terrible and fair,

In beauty vie!

Beyond the line of blue-

The boundary of the star

Which turneth at the view

Of thy barrier and thy bar-

Of the barrier overgone

By the comets who were cast

From their pride and from their throne

To be drudges till the last-

To be carriers of fire

(The red fire of their heart)

With speed that may not tire

And with pain that shall not part-

Who livest- that we know-

In Eternity- we feel-

But the shadow of whose brow

What spirit shall reveal?

Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,

Thy messenger hath known

Have dream'd for thy Infinity

A model of their own-

Thy will is done, O God!

The star hath ridden high

Thro' many a tempest, but she rode

Beneath thy burning eye;

And here, in thought, to thee-

In thought that can alone

Ascend thy empire and so be

A partner of thy throne-

By winged Fantasy,

My embassy is given,

Till secrecy shall knowledge be

In the environs of Heaven."

She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek

Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek

A shelter from the fervor of His eye;

For the stars trembled at the Deity.

She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there

How solemnly pervading the calm air!

A sound of silence on the startled ear

Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."

Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call

"Silence"- which is the merest word of all.

All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things

Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings-

But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high

The eternal voice of God is passing by,

And the red winds are withering in the sky:-