II

Downwards through the blue abyss it slides, The white snow-water of my dreams, Downwards crashing from slippery rock Into the boiling chasm:

In which no eye dare look, for it is the chasm of death. Upwards from the blue abyss it rises, The chill water-mist of my dreams; Upwards to greyish weeping pines,

And to skies of autumn ever about my heart, It is blue at the beginning, And blue-white against the grey-greenness; It wavers in the upper air,

Catching unconscious sparkles, a rainbow-glint of sunlight, And fading in the sad depths of the sky. Outwards rush the strong pale clouds, Outwards and ever outwards;

The blue-grey clouds indistinguishable one from another: Nervous, sinewy, tossing their arms and brandishing, Till on the blue serrations of the horizon They drench with their black rain a great peak of changeless snow.

As evening came on, I climbed the tower, To gaze upon the city far beneath: I was not weary of day; but in the evening A white mist assembled and gathered over the earth

And blotted it from sight. But to escape: To chase with the golden clouds galloping over the horizon: Arrows of the northwest wind

Singing amid them, Ruffling up my hair! As evening came on the distance altered, Pale wavering reflections rose from out the city,

Like sighs or the beckoning of half-invisible hands. Monotonously and sluggishly they crept upwards A river that had spent itself in some chasm, And dwindled and foamed at last at my weary feet.

Autumn! Golden fountains, And the winds neighing Amid the monotonous hills: Desolation of the old gods,

Rain that lifts and rain that moves away; In the greenback torrent Scarlet leaves. It was now perfectly evening:

And the tower loomed like a gaunt peak in mid-air Above the city: its base was utterly lost. It was slowly coming on to rain, And the immense columns of white mist

Wavered and broke before the faint-hurled spears. I will descend the mountains like a shepherd, And in the folds of tumultuous misty cities, I will put all my thoughts, all my old thoughts, safely to sleep.

For it is already autumn, O whiteness of the pale southwestern sky! O wavering dream that was not mine to keep! In midnight, in mournful moonlight,

By paths I could not trace, I walked in the white garden, Each flower had a white face. Their perfume intoxicated me: thus I began my dream.

I was alone; I had no one to guide me, But the moon was like the sun: It stooped and kissed each waxen petal, One after one.

Green and white was that garden: diamond rain hung in the branches, You will not believe it! In the morning, at the dayspring, I wakened, shivering; lo,

The white garden that blossomed at my feet Was a garden hidden in snow. It was my sorrow to see that all this was a dream.