| When the moon is on the wave
|
| And the glow-worm in the grass
|
| And the meteor on the grave
|
| And the wisp on the morass
|
| When the falling stars are shooting
|
| And the answer’d owls are hooting
|
| And the silent leaves are still
|
| In the shadow of the hill
|
| Shall my soul be upon thine
|
| With a power and with a sign
|
| Though thy slumber may be deep
|
| Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;
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| There are shades which will not vanish
|
| There are thoughts thou canst not banish
|
| By a power to thee unknown
|
| Thou canst never be alone;
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| Thou art wrapt as with a shroud
|
| Thou art gather’d in a cloud;
|
| And for ever shalt thou dwell
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| In the spirit of this spell
|
| Though thou seest me not pass by
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| Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
|
| As a thing that, though unseen
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| Must be near thee, and hath been;
|
| And when in that secret dread
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| Thou hast turn’d around thy head
|
| Thou shalt marvel I am not
|
| As thy shadow on the spot
|
| And the power which thou dost feel
|
| Shall be what thou dost feel
|
| Shall be what thou must conceal
|
| And a magic voice and verse
|
| Hath baptized thee with a curse;
|
| And a spirit of the air
|
| Hath begirt thee with a snare;
|
| In the wind there is a voice
|
| Shall forbid thee to rejoice;
|
| And to thee shall night deny
|
| All the quiet of her sky;
|
| And the day shall have a sun
|
| Which shall make thee wish it done
|
| From thy false tears I did distil
|
| An essence which hath strength to kill;
|
| From thy own heart I then did wring
|
| The black blood in its blackest spring;
|
| From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake
|
| For there it coil’d as in a brake;
|
| From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake
|
| For there it coil’d as in a brake;
|
| From thy own lip I drew the the charm
|
| Which gave all these their chiefest harm;
|
| In proving every poison known
|
| I found the strongest was thine own
|
| By thy cold breast and serpent smile
|
| By thy unfathom’d gulfs of guile
|
| By that most seeming virtuos eye
|
| By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy;
|
| By the perfection of thine art
|
| Which pass’d for human thine own heart;
|
| By thy delight in others' pain
|
| And by thy brotherhood of cain
|
| I call upon thee! |
| And compel
|
| Thyself to be thy proper hell!
|
| And on thy head I pour the vial
|
| Which doth devote this trial;
|
| Nor to slumber, nor to die
|
| Shall be in thy destiny;
|
| Though thy death shall still seem near
|
| To thy wish, but as a fear;
|
| Lo! |
| The spell now works around thee
|
| And the clankless chain hath bound thee;
|
| O’er thy heart and brain together
|
| Hath the word been pass’d — now wither! |