The Ideal

By George Sterling

Red, in what maze of indecisive war,
    Sought I thy dooming beauty in the past?
    For as a light from firmaments o'ercast,
Or pharos high on Death's forgotten shore,
Thou flamest on my soul for evermore.
    Thy burning eyes unsearchable outlast
    All suns and furies of the cosmic Vast—
The stars supreme that Night to Godhood bore.

Thou art as Morning in her house of gold,
    When mute, dethroned, unhappy Night hath fled
To refuge with the ocean grey and old,
    Companioned by the vassal stars in flight,
And rout of armies panoplied in red.
    The rest are shadows—thou indeed art Light.

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