gold soft splendors old--
The hour of night--eleven.

No word. The sparkle aches
In cups of diamond-spar,
That prism the light of ruddy white
In royal wines of war.

No word. Rich plate that rays,
Splashes of splitting fires,
Off beryl brims; while sobs and swims
Enchantment of lost lyres.

I lean to him I love,
And in the silence say:
"Would thy dear grace reveal thy face,
If love should crave and pray?"

Grave Silence, like a king,
At that strange feast is set;
Grave Silence still as the soul's will,
That rules the reason yet.

But when I speak, behold!
The charm is snapped, for low
Speaks out the mask o' his golden casque,
"At midnight be it so!"

And Silence waits severe,
Till one sonorous tower,
Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,
Sounds slow the midnight hour.

Three strokes; the knights arise,
The palsy from them flung,
To meward mock like some hoarse rock
When wrecking waves give tongue.

Six strokes; and wailing out
The music hoots away;
The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer,
The red grows ghostly gray.

Nine strokes; and dropping mould
The crumbling hall is lead;
The plate is rust, the feast is dust,
The banqueters are dead.

Twelve strokes pound out and roll;
The huge walls writhe and shake
O'er hissing things with taloned wings--
Christ Jesus, let me wake!

Then rattling in the night
_His_ iron visor slips--
In rotting mail a death's-head pale
Kisses my loathing lips.

Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes,
Sharp-pointed like a knife,
That flaming seem to say, "_No dream!_
_No dream! the truth of Life!_"

THE EVE OF ALL-SAINTS.

1.

This is the tale they tell,
Of an Hallowe'en;
This is the thing that befell
Me and the village Belle,
Beautiful Aimee Dean.

2.

Did I love her?--God and she,
They know and I!
And love was the life of me--
Whatever else may be,
Would God that I could die!

3.

That All-Saints' eve was dim;
The frost lay white
Under strange stars and a slim
Moon in the graveyard grim,
An Autumn ghost of light.