Behold the hour is come when stems are thrilled, And like swung censers flowers shed their fume;Now thro' the air are sounds and odours spilled; O wistful waltz within the dizzy gloom!
Now like swung censers flowers shed their fume; Now like a torn heart hath the viol trilled;O wistful waltz within the dizzy gloom! Like a lone shrine the sky with sorrow is filled.
Now like a torn heart hath the viol trilled, A shy heart that doth hate all dark and doom!Like a lone shrine the sky with sorrow is filled. The sun is drowned in his blood's own spume.
A shy heart that doth hate all dark and doom Drinks every drop from the waned light down-spilled.The sun is drowned in his blood's own spume. Thy memory lights me like a monstrance filled!
