Death In Life

written by


« Reload image

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 belovèd 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!_"

© Madison Julius Cawein