DESERTED.

A broken rainbow on the skies of May Touching the sodden roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost: Upon the heaven of a soul the ghost

Of a great love, perfect in its pure ray, Touching the roses moist of memory To die within the Present's grief of clouds — A broken rainbow on the skies of May.

A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers, Or red or white; its darting length of tongue Sucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet, And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet:

A love that put into expanding bowers Of one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powers To cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone — A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.

A foamy moon which thro’ a night of fleece Moves amber girt into a bulk of dark, And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth: A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth,

Moved thro’ a soul's night-dun and made a peace — More bland than Melancholy's white — to cease In blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark — A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.

A blaze of living thunder — not a leap — Momental spouting balds the piled storm, The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean, The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion:

A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep, Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep, And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm — Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.