Within my veins it beats And burns within my brain; For when the year is sad and sear I dream the dream again.
Ah! over young am I God knows! yet in this sleep More pain and woe than women know I know, and doubly deep!...
Seven towers of shaggy rock Rise red to ragged skies, Built in a marsh that, black and harsh, To dead horizons lies.
Eternal sunset pours, Around its warlock towers, A glowing urn where garnets burn With fire-dripping flowers.
O'er bat-like turrets high, Stretched in a scarlet line, The crimson cranes through rosy rains Drop like a ruby wine.
Once in the banquet-hall These scarlet storks are heard:— I sit at board with men o’ th’ sword And knights of noble word;
Cased all in silver mail; But he, I love and fear, In glittering gold beside me bold Sits like a lover near.
Wild music echoes in The hollow towers there; Behind bright bars o’ his visor, stars Beam in his eyes and glare.
Wild music oozes from Arched ceilings, caked with white Groined pearl; and floors like mythic shores That sing to seas of light.
Wild music and a feast, And one's beloved near In burning mail — why am I pale, So pale with grief and fear?
Red heavens and slaughter-red The marsh to west and east; Seven slits of sky, seven casements high, Flare on the blood-red feast.
Our torches tall are these, Our revel torches seven, That spill from gold soft splendors old — The hour of night — eleven.
No word. The sparkle aches In cups of diamond-spar, That prism the light of ruddy white In royal wines of war.
No word. Rich plate that rays, Splashes of splitting fires, Off beryl brims; while sobs and swims Enchantment of lost lyres.
I lean to him I love, And in the silence say: “Would thy dear grace reveal thy face, If love should crave and pray?”
Grave Silence, like a king, At that strange feast is set; Grave Silence still as the soul's will, That rules the reason yet.
But when I speak, behold! The charm is snapped, for low Speaks out the mask o’ his golden casque, “At midnight be it so!”
And Silence waits severe, Till one sonorous tower, Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms, Sounds slow the midnight hour.
Three strokes; the knights arise, The palsy from them flung, To meward mock like some hoarse rock When wrecking waves give tongue.
Six strokes; and wailing out The music hoots away; The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer, The red grows ghostly gray.
Nine strokes; and dropping mould The crumbling hall is lead; The plate is rust, the feast is dust, The banqueters are dead.
Twelve strokes pound out and roll; The huge walls writhe and shake O'er hissing things with taloned wings — Christ Jesus, let me wake!
Then rattling in the night His iron visor slips — In rotting mail a death's-head pale Kisses my loathing lips.
Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes, Sharp-pointed like a knife, That flaming seem to say, “No dream! No dream! the truth of Life!”
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