On heaven's deep dome--the peacock's hue,
Bright flakes of crimsoning fire!

Dew-fresh was all the wavering air.
We heard the reef's far rollers croon
About the ocean's margent, where
Loitered the waning moon ...
So fond the hour; the scene so fair;
And fate came home so soon ...
Some sorrow wept,--I knew not where.
Some sudden presence made the air
Chill as the breathless moon.

Silent, upon a lonelier steep,
I gazed across a deeper deep,
Where the pale mists pass from the isles of sleep.--

Lost voices called in other years:
Old sweetness like a breaking grief
Rose in the heart and stung to tears:
In that clear moment brief
Life's dearest, dead so long before,
Returned to bless and die once more.

The faintly crooning sabbath bells
At evening in the golden fells
I heard; the tinkle of the rills
In haunts where childish fancy fed;
I saw the orchard daffodils
About the calm homestead;
Ah, saddest thought that ever fills
An errant heart that memory thrills,
The heath-smell of his homeland hills
To one whose loves are dead ...

What yearnings burn the human breast;
What wild desires like prisoned birds
Impel the heart from east to west;
What urgings baffling words
Beat up from nature unexpressed
Till soul distinct stands manifest,
On guard for heaven, or, wanton, hurled
Toward judgment through the world.

Long following beauty's floating flame
Beneath the sky from sea to sea
No isle of rest, no haven could claim
The lonely, homeless heart in me.
Sick loneliness no more should be
Companion to my soul, for She
To fill the questing vision came,
Came down the breadths of blossoming foam
To give to loveliness a name,
To happiness a home!

Yet thought toward passion moved with dread,
Like one who, hurrying to be wed,
Steps, darkling, on the dead.

Far down we saw mute wavelets leap
Feebly as though remembering sleep;
The wheeling sea-birds proudly sway
In glory o'er the opal bay;--
But at the heart the world grew grey;
Some joy had perished from the day;
Some love was grieving far away.

No voice stirred through the haunted hill
Touched with the morn's inviolate gleam.
All fearfully wild heart and will
Drank rapture