Gaunt windy moons bedraggled in the dusk
Have drifted by and withered in their shame,
The once-proud Thunder-Terror, fallen tame,
Noses for truffles with unwhetted tusk;
A sickening scent of civet and of musk
Has clogged the nostrils of the Hound of Fame—
But flickering stars are blown to vivid flame
When leaps your beauty from its blazing husk.
Blossom of burning solitude! High things
Are lit with splendour—Love your glimmering ray
Smites them to glory—below them and away
A little song floats upward on the wings
Of daring, and the thunders of the ...
Beside the golden gate there grows a tree
Whose heavy fruit gives entrance to the ways
Of Wonder, and the leaves thereof are days
Of desolation—nights of agony
The buds and blossom for the fruits to be:
Rooted in terror the dead trunk decays,
The burdened branches drooping to the clays
Clammy with blood of crushed humanity.