Whence do you come, oh silken shapes, Across the silver sky? We come from where the wind blows And the young stars die. Why do you move so fast, so fast Across the white moon's breast? The cruel wind is at our heels And we may not rest. Are you not weary, fleeing shapes, That never cease to flee? The forkéd trees' chained shadows are Less weary than we. Whither do you go, O shadow-shapes Across the ghastly sky? We go to where the wind blows And the old stars die. My head is circl'd with fire-- And I think of the failing of one's desire-- And I hear outside the pitiful dropping of rain; Which is the greater pain? I yearn for the birth of the brain-- Be it child of blood and pain, (I pray to endure the pain)-- My heart--lo! my heart is afire With hue as of purple or Tyre-- With hope of Promethean fire-- And oh God! God! God! the desire For what only the Gods attain! In the white moonlight stand With every finger on a star, and feel Infinity as an engulfing wave. JOY The cañons are covered with snow, But the sky doth over them lean With eyes that are warm and keen As if he could never know The gray despair of the snow; And snow and sky join hands together To dance a dance of wonderful weather! A VOICE A woman spoke to me in the street-- I do not remember how or why-- But a breath blew over the winter sky And spring came in with silver feet! ANOTHER A creature plucked at me in the street But well I knew the reason why The red stars sickened in the sky And Hell gaped open at my feet! IMPRESSIONS This is the Gate of the Gray City--wrought With piled roofs and steeples dimly seen Thru the gray dusk--pale, wistful flakes of fire Kindled about its lower fringe--vast murk-- A snuffling monster with an evil eye That surly pants to work some will unknown, Blowing white breaths--a semaphore With lifted arm--a form that swings a light In arcs, against infinitude of gray, Uneasy sounds, the clink and clank and groan; Of things inanimate--the curves of rails In rhythmical convergence gathered up-- (And gathering up what burdens from afar!) Monotony--monotony--despair! This is the Gate of the Gray City. Whatever our immitigable end, The earth's our home and prison thru whose windows Our wistful scrutinizing minds traverse The sky's dissolving continents, exult In melancholy mountains or, shackled, Envy the inconstant sea that seems An uncontaminated god, alone, complete In mighty passion and the scorn of time. * * * * * I love the skyward-spiring tree For its supreme unconsciousness of me.