And we who loved well that place of flowers
Looked with awe on the wondrous birth,
And knew that the last flower of the garden
Was something not of earth.
PART II
THE LION OF TYRINGHAM
Midway the valley, fronting the flusht morn,
The huge beast stretches prone, as by the Nile
The enormous Sphinx; so nature mimics nature,
And man's own art—tho' never such vast shape
By man was fashioned. Thus through ages long
Hath he the tempest and the rain endured,
And the all-rending frost, and the great sun,
And the remorseless winters of the world.
What shall that immemorial rest disturb?
His monstrous head down prest betwixt huge paws
How well he sleeps! Not deeper slumber holds
The dead in the white city far below.
And shall he waken?—Shall the dead awake?
THE VOICE OF THE HIGHT
I
Of a dream I would sing and a river I saw in a dream—
Of souls that the river divided, so wide was the stream,
So wide and so deep that neither the other beheld.
And they gazed on the ocean near, by terror compelled—
On the infinite ocean whither their barks had been hurled
In a tempest that drove from the ultimate, unseen world.
