black shell almost bursting With the force of flame in it. Still, wearily, I swing my shovel, Spattering the black coal over the palates Of the snoring mouths which rapidly swallow. There is nothing else to do. My legs seem melting away in sweat beneath me: In my body my lungs and heart are fighting for air, My eyes are seared by the appalling scarlet, Of the furnaces about me—I scarcely-see them—My shovelfuls fall short with every swing. Without I hear the battering of the tempest, The ship is pounded sideways by black immeasurable wave-thrusts, And rising dizzily again, like a half-senseless fighter, Is again sent downwards, by those unseen fists. My shovel rises to the ship's slow recovery, My shovel shoots out at the smash of toppling masses, Sometimes I pause and pant for an endless instant, While the ship crouches, quivering. Over my head a bell beats: it is morning. Wearily I drop the shovel, And drag myself to the deck. IV Afar There is something that seems a shore; The sky has been blown clean of clouds except to westward, And these stare hard at me, like huge sardonyx towers. I cling to a half-shattered rail that reels and dances, Soused by the choking water, My face a streaming mass of blood and salt and grime, I wait and dizzily I try to remember. What is this city that out there awaits me? Am I its conqueror? Will scarlet flags hang fluttering in the streets To greet my coming? Will crimson lanterns Jingle and toss in festival to-night? Has the fire burned the ship and is the water But stinging icy fire, That whips and sears my face? Down there the furnaces go out, for the water Sloshes about the floor; And steaming acrid fumes arise, No living soul could stay in such a place. Out here the decks are shattered, The boats are shorn away, And far on the horizon, The city glares with its sardonyx towers. Now the red bells, The black-red bells, The storm bells, Break loose from the horizon, Leaping upon the eastern sea, And breaking it in their teeth. The towers Infuriate, enkindle From base to summit, In layers, and orange terraces, Against the blue snow haze that drifts down on them from the east. The ship of my soul Is rolling to port at last, With one clang from its heaving boilers, One sigh from its shaking funnels, One rattle from its loosened chains. I will lash myself to the masthead And wait Empty-eyed and open-mouthed, Till the city that is all one scarlet flame of death Takes me to itself at last. 

 VIOLET SYMPHONY I But yesterday Moonsails were raking high the harbour of my dreams. Dull night of trees, Dark sorrows drooping, Glittering raindrops gleam on you In recollection Of my despair. But yesterday Stardust was scattered deep on the dark gulf of my 

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