Classic Poem

As to a mountain holy
Peakt in a haze of live blue trembling air,
Anointed by the glory of the Sun,
So faltering as a pilgrim, faint and slowly
I lift up wearied eyes
To this vague land that lies
As a tired queen ere her long day begun,
Breasting the Southern glamour, and slaves the North
To fan the tresses of her heavy hair,
And with her stretched palms draws East and West in one.

O still I hail thee, since most fair art thou,
Lady of smooth broad brow
And healing touch!
Thou that abidest where the Adrian brims,
And where spreads reedy silver Thrasymene
One sheeted broad demesne;
Or in dark Tyrrhene seas where daylight dims,
And men, fainting through much
Toil, seek with their blind hands
To bind about their brows thy hair in thick wet bands.

For rest is in thine eyes,
And full of rest thy voice
Calling among the water-brooks of easeful things;
Sweet-cool the winnowings,
And full of solace when the sun-glare dies
The play of thy great wings
Across the thick of evening dusk with hidden noise
So on the breast of Night,
Beneath thy serious eyes,
Wrapt in the silver light
About thy head that lies,
Lull'd by the mysteries
And soft low breathings of thy deep delight,
Let me faint out of strife where Sleep is Death's surmise.

Awake, O thou most holy,
O Bride desirable of all the Earth!
Lift up thy languid head, the languid lids
Droopt on thy solemn eyes, the moment bids
We front the world with mirth
Awake the tired, the lowly
Raise thou! Lo, priest-like Dawn
Stoled all in swathes of lawn
And shrouded gossamer: lo! he will hymn the morn.

I sing thine eager rising
With music on thy lips,
With fresh dew in thy hair
And on the rosy tips
Of thy quick fingers prayer
Like balm to anoint our faint souls agonising:
I see the Bridegroom issue,
I see the dead wake up
And all wan faces quiver,
As in a rain-fed river
The stream out-brims the cup;
Then, veil'd in golden tissue,
Phaebus the chant take up!

Surely now, surely succour cometh in,
Surely is paid the sin,
And past the burthen of night!
For here in cooler air
The autumn day smiles meekly, a kinder death
Than threaten'd us beneath
The restless crave and hunger of the sea!

Behold! our lord the Sun,
Apollo's panoplied arm,
Streameth out of the gates
And fireth the ways of dawn,
And kindleth the scars of the hill-tops one after one
With the flush of Heaven's quick fire:
Even so is my own desire
Litten, and hope leapeth higher and higher:
Lift up your voice to the Queen in her bride's attire!