George Sterling Poems

A gentle sadness best becomes
The features of the perfect Muse:
The shock of laughter but benumbs
The lips that crave immortal dews.
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Tho Fate, for quiet prayer, might grant me all,
Little I ask beside the lasting grace
And benediction of thy dear embrace —
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Like some regret that, half-forgot,
Gropes into memory,
Here in a shadow-chosen spot
Thy music steals to me.
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When I contemplate this mine urgent race
And see what paths its tireless feet have worn,
In silence and essential night forlorn,
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Soon come the winter days, when white Altair
Spreads wings above the sunset. Soon the snow,
A fleeting seed the twilight heavens sow,
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Tell me, O Night! what horses hale the moon!
Those of the sun rear now on Syria's day,
But here the steeds of Artemis delay
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I saw the Lesbian Sappho bowed in light
Before the sapphire altar of the sea—
Song-swept, a lyre on which in threnody
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Beyond the purple bay
The drowsy winds awaken to delay.
Spring, a world-spirit, dips
In pure turquoise her lips
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No cloud is on the heavens, and on the sea
No sail: the immortal, solemn ocean lies
Unbroken sapphire to the walling skies-
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Without, the battlements of sunset shine,
'Mid domes the sea-winds rear and overwhelm.
Into a crystal cup the dusky wine
I pour, and, musing at so rich a shrine,
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