Classic Poem

The day is falling on a wicked deed.
A richer veil than sunbeams ever wove
With woof of air for colour stricken greed
Hangs sheer, where downward stacks of stairs recede,
Each ever mauver than its fellow mauve.

But inward, and beyond the keen of those
Who may behold this wonder if they will,
Keep ward such armies, in a hush so still,
The stair they stand on scarcely knows the throes
Of their unanimous breathing. Thus, until.

The holy hour they wait upon shall knell,
They curb the impatience of their harps, and hark;
Which being struck, day like a stricken bell
Shall shriek; and flee; and night cast down his fell;
And more than earthly night shall night be dark.

Earth is a landscape, where an orange grove
Has all the seeming of a labyrinth,
Even as orange as the heaven is mauve;
The sun is gold as heaven is hyacinth,
As glowing as a founder's open stove.

An insolent pavilion blocks the right.
Betwixt its golden curtains (fringed with gold)
Peer wicked turbaned ruffians, shrunk and old;
The grave sun smites the tent with level light,
Firing its crest and gilding every fold.

So yellow this against the slothfulness
Of one delicate vine, a purple-rain,
Whose lilac clusters, heavily drooping, stain
The tent's walls; the inquisitive tendrils press
Into the opening, and turn back again.

Yet somewhat wanting to this colour-plot;
Mauve heaven and orange earth are not enough;
A swarm of hell stands by, a lurid spot;
Their knotty limbs are fierce with scarlet stuff;
Their rank hair veils their ears, which hearken not;

Their faces are all wrathful, drawn and swarth;
Their bonnets are thrown back and feather-dressed;
Cloaks thrown aside; one, younger than the rest,
Too young for murder, hurries to and forth,
Bolts in each hand and sticking in his vest.

O sin! their wicked feet help wicked hands
To strain the tension of their stubborn bows.
The captain, he who wears the reddest hose,
Impatient, armed, and legs akimbo, stands
Aiming, with one clinched eye and wrinkled nose.

Bright carnations leap
From the bloodred soil
Petals soon shall drip
With Sebastian's spoil.
Oh, that flowers should weep.

Pale Sebastian's feet
Clutch the ground for strength;
For his blood doth beat
Through his body's length
Feverish and fleet.

Eyes reluctant turn
From the wicked crew;
Eyes with love which burn
For the ill they do,
Heavenward must turn.

Yet his human skin
Cannot choose but shrink,
Shamed because of sin,
Though upon the brink
Martyr palm to win.