Prophetic Soul

My hand, a little raised, might press a star-Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun, So shaped before Olympus was begun, Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar. Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you; Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams. Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you; Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.

Should they whisper false of you.  Never trouble to deny; Should the words they say be true,  Weep and storm and swear they lie.

Now it's over, and now it's done; Why does everything look the same? Just as bright, the unheeding sun, — Can't it see that the parting came?

Her mind lives in a quiet room, A narrow room, and tall, With pretty lamps to quench the gloom And mottoes on the wall. There all the things are waxen neat And set in decorous lines;

Lilacs blossom just as Now my heart is shattered. If I bowled it down the street, Who's to say it mattered?

I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying, But my heart drags down with an ancient load- My heart, that a second before was flying. I never behold the quivering rain- And sweeter the rain than a lover to…

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,  Love, the reeling midnight through, For tomorrow we shall die!  (But, alas, we never do.)