By George Sterling

The Night sate weeping in a lonely land;
    Or ever, in the faithless truce of Grief,
    Held dumb communion—ominous relief!—
With Mystery and Silence, hard at hand.

Then crept that vast conspiracy to-West;
    And then came bird-song and the sunlight, born
    Of that unnoted miracle of morn,
And for my labor in the darkness, rest. . . .

My mind, grown weary with the day—it seemed—
    Had lingered o'er the poet's lines too long;
    Or snows of sorrow hid the flowers of song;
For fire and beauty shunned his page, I deemed.

Then music was, and lo! beneath the dome
    Of Song's high land I wandered. Found at last
    Were seas and cities of the fabled past,
And faery islands girt with golden foam.


Will dawn at last, beyond the mortal years,
    Reveal the land that now by faith we name,
    And Music with celestial lips proclaim
The mystery of unrequited tears?

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