My Two Geniuses

One is a slow and melancholy maid;I know riot if she cometh from the skiesOr from the sleepy gulfs, but she will riseOften before me in the twilight shade,Holding a bunch of poppies and a bladeOf springing wheat: prostrate my body liesBefore her on the turf, the while she tiesA fillet of the weed about my head;And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hearA gentle rustle like the stir of corn,And words like odours thronging to my ear:"Lie still, beloved--still until the morn;Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere--Still till the judgment; thou art faint and worn."

The other meets me in the public throng;Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;She points me downward, steadily and long:--"There is thy grave--arise, my son, be strong!Hands are upon thy crown--awake, aspireTo immortality; heed not the lyreOf the Enchantress, nor her poppy-song,But in the stillness of the summer calmTremble for what is Godlike in thy being.Listen a while, and thou shall hear the psalmOf victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;And from far battle-fields there comes the neighingOf dreadful onset, though the air is balm."

Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?Alas, I may not; thou art likewise dear!I am but human, and thou hast a tearWhen she hath nought but splendour, and the glowOf a wild energy that mocks the flowOf the poor sympathies which keep us here:Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;And thou shalt walk with me in open dayThrough the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,Timing her footsteps to a gentler paceAs her great orbs turn ever on thy face,Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.