Night came again, but now I could not sleep. The owls were watching in the yew, the mice Gnawed at the wainscot; the mid dark was deep, The death-watch knocked the dead man's summons thrice. The cats upon the pointed housetops peered About the chimneys, with lit eyes which saw Things in the darkness, moving, which they feared. The midnight filled the quiet house with awe. So, creeping down the stair, I drew the bolt And passed into the darkness, and I knew That Beauty was brought near by my revolt. Beauty was in the moonlight, in the dew, But more within myself whose venturous tread Walked the dark house where death ticks called the dead. Even after all these years there comes the dream Of lovelier life than this in some new earth, In the full summer of that unearthly gleam Which lights the spirit when the brain gives birth, Of a perfected I, in happy hours, Treading above the sea that trembles there, A path through thickets of immortal flowers That only grow where sorrows never were. And, at a turn, of coming face to face With Beauty's self, that Beauty I have sought In women's hearts, in friends, in many a place, In barren hours passed at grips with thought, Beauty of woman, comrade, earth and sea, Incarnate thought come face to face with me. If I could come again to that dear place Where once I came, where Beauty lived and moved, Where, by the sea, I saw her face to face, That soul alive by which the world has loved; If, as I stood at gaze among the leaves, She would appear again, as once before, While the red herdsman gathered up his sheaves And brimming waters trembled up the shore; If, as I gazed, her Beauty that was dumb, In that old time, before I learned to speak, Would lean to me and revelation come, Words to the lips and color to the cheek, Joy with its searing-iron would burn me wise, I should know all; all powers, all mysteries. Men are made human by the mighty fall The mighty passion led to, these remain. The despot, at the last assaulted wall, By long disaster is made man again, The faithful fool who follows the torn flag, The woman marching by the beaten man, Make with their truth atonement for the brag, And earn a pity for the too proud plan. For in disaster, in the ruined will, In the soiled shreds of what the brain conceived, Something above the wreck is steady still, Bright above all that cannot be retrieved, Grandeur of soul, a touching of the star That good days cover but by which we are.