At the postern gate of dreams.

 When the first low laughter smote

 Through Lilith, the mother of joy,

 And died and revived from the throat

 Of Helen, the harpstring of Troy,

21

 And wandering on through the years,

 From the sobbing rain and the sea,

 Caught sound of the world’s gray tears

 Or sense of the sun’s gold glee,

 Whenever the wild control

 Burned out to a mortal kiss,

 And the shuddering storm-swept soul

 Climbed to its acme of bliss,

 The green-gold light of the dead

 Stood still in purple space,

 And a record blind and dread

 Was graved on the dial’s face.

 And once in a thousand years

 Some youth who loved so well

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