Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. ་ And "while the world runs round and round,” I said, "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade To which my soul made answer readily: "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide." * Four courts I made, East and West, South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell In misty folds, that floating as they fell And high on every peak a statue seemed A cloud of incense of all odor steamed So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon While this great bow will waver in the sun, For that sweet incense rose and never failed, Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stained and traced, Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Through which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seemed all dark and red a tract of sand, Who paced forever in a glimmering land, One showed an iron coast and angry waves. And one, a full-fed river winding slow And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond a line of heights, and higher All barred with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home-gray twilight poured Softer than sleep-all things in order stored, Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, * In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-walled city on the sea, Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bowed to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son And watched by weeping queens. |