20 THE BRONX SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES. 



And there he built him palaces of song. 



Lifting their spires against the pallid moon, 



With corridors where shapes of shadow throng 

 When night is at her noon. 



He sought his dream-love there by many names 



Of terror and of pity and of peace — 

 Lenore, Ligeia (burning like pale flames) 



Morella, Berenice. 



He trod high chambers lit with ruby light. 

 And heard in the hush the somber arras stir, 



And stir again, in the deep and secret night, 

 With memories of her. 



He heard the demon whispers in the deep. 



And songs of deathless love where seraphs are; 



He saw the cliffs of Time, a ghostly heap. 

 But over the cliffs the star! 



IV 



() poet, not for you the trampling street, 



The wrangling crowd that cry and clutch for gold, 



And so you followed Beauty's living feet 

 Into the dim and old. 



O poet, life was bitter to your heart: 



These stones have memories of the tears you shed. 

 Forgive the serpent tongue, the flying dart — 



Forgive us from the dead. 



You sang your song: we gave you scorn for pay: 

 For beauty's bread we gave a stone; and yet 



Because our eyes were holden on the way, 

 Remember to forget. 



Sing, Israfel : you have your star at last. 



Your morning star; but we — we still must live! 



So now that all is over, all is past. 

 Forget, forget — forgive ! 



