Palingenesis

I lay upon the headland-height, and listenedTo the incessant sobbing of the seaIn caverns under me,And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened,Until the rolling meadows of amethystMelted away in mist.

Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;For round about me all the sunny capesSeemed peopled with the shapesOf those whom I had known in days departed,Apparelled in the loveliness which gleamsOn faces seen in dreams.

A moment only, and the light and gloryFaded away, and the disconsolate shoreStood lonely as before;And the wild-roses of the promontoryAround me shuddered in the wind, and shedTheir petals of pale red.

There was an old belief that in the embersOf all things their primordial form exists,And cunning alchemistsCould re-create the rose with all its membersFrom its own ashes, but without the bloom,Without the lost perfume.

Ah me! what wonder-working, occult scienceCan from the ashes in our hearts once moreThe rose of youth restore?What craft of alchemy can bid defianceTo time and change, and for a single hourRenew this phantom-flower?

"O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors,The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,When the swift stream of lifeBounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrendersThe pond, with all its lilies, for the leapInto the unknown deep!"

And the sea answered, with a lamentation,Like some old prophet wailing, and it said,"Alas! thy youth is dead!It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation;In the dark places with the dead of oldIt lies forever cold!"

Then said I, "From its consecrated cerementsI will not drag this sacred dust again,Only to give me pain;But, still remembering all the lost endearments,Go on my way, like one who looks before,And turns to weep no more."

Into what land of harvests, what plantationsBright with autumnal foliage and the glowOf sunsets burning low;Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellationsLight up the spacious avenues betweenThis world and the unseen!

Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,What households, though not alien, yet not mine,What bowers of rest divine;To what temptations in lone wildernesses,What famine of the heart, what pain and loss,The bearing of what cross!

I do not know; nor will I vainly questionThose pages of the mystic book which holdThe story still untold,But without rash conjecture or suggestionTurn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,Until "The End" I read.