Two Sonnets

At the hushed brink of twilight,—when, as though Some solemn journeying phantom paused to lay An ominous finger on the awestruck day, Earth holds her breath till that great presence go,— A moment comes of visionary glow, Pendulous 'twixt the gold hour and the grey, Lovelier than these, more eloquent than they Of memory, foresight, and life's ebb and flow. So have I known, in some fair woman's face, While viewless yet was Time's more gross imprint, The first, faint, hesitant, elusive hint Of that invasion of the vandal years Seem deeper beauty than youth's cloudless grace, Wake subtler dreams, and touch me nigh to tears.

No echo of man's life pursues my ears; Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign; Change comes not, this dread temple to profane, Where time by æons reckons, not by years. Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears, Type of whate'er is destined to remain While yon still host encamped on Night's waste plain Keeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears. Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor; The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall, Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled: Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door; And there is built and 'stablisht over all Tremendous Silence, older than the world.