_Bird Spirit._ I am the nearest nightingale That singeth in Eden after you; And I am singing loud and true, And sweet,--I do not fail. I sit upon a cypress bough, Close to the gate, and I fling my song Over the gate and through the mail Of the warden angels marshalled strong,-- Over the gate and after you. And the warden angels let it pass, Because the poor brown bird, alas, Sings in the garden, sweet and true. And I build my song of high pure notes, Note over note, height over height, Till I strike the arch of the Infinite, And I bridge abysmal agonies With strong, clear calms of harmonies,-- And something abides, and something floats, In the song which I sing after you. Fare ye well, farewell! The creature-sounds, no longer audible, Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some cadence which ye heard before. Farewell! the birds of Eden, Ye shall hear nevermore. _Flower Spirits._ We linger, we linger, The last of the throng, Like the tones of a singer Who loves his own song. We are spirit-aromas Of blossom and bloom. We call your thoughts home,--as Ye breathe our perfume,-- To the amaranth's splendour Afire on the slopes; To the lily-bells tender, And grey heliotropes; To the poppy-plains keeping Such dream-breath and blee That the angels there stepping Grew whiter to see: To the nook, set with moly, Ye jested one day in, Till your smile waxed too holy And left your lips praying: To the rose in the bower-place, That dripped o'er you sleeping; To the asphodel flower-place, Ye walked ankle-deep in. We pluck at your raiment, We stroke down your hair, We faint in our lament And pine into air. Fare ye well, farewell! The Eden scents, no longer sensible, Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some fragrance which ye knew before. Farewell! the flowers of Eden, Ye shall smell nevermore. [_There is silence. ADAM and EVE fly on, and never look back. Only a colossal shadow, as of the dark Angel passing quickly, is cast upon the Sword-glare._ * * * * * SCENE.--_The extremity of the Sword-glare._ _Adam._ Pausing a moment on this outer edge Where the supernal sword-glare cuts in light The dark exterior desert,--hast thou strength, Beloved, to look behind us to the gate? _Eve._ Have I not strength to look up to thy face?