And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,
     With an earnest will to find its way. 
     Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder,
     And, thundering ever of the mountain,
     Slaps in sport some giant boulder,
     And tops it in a silver fountain. 
     A chain of foam from end to end,
     And a solitude so deep, my friend,
     You may forget that man abides
     Beyond the great mute mountain-sides. 
     Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude
     Of river and rock and forest rude,
     The roaring voice through the long white chain
     Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.

     Phantasy

     I

     Within a Temple of the Toes,
     Where twirled the passionate Wili,
     I saw full many a market rose,
     And sighed for my village lily.

     II

     With cynical Adrian then I took flight
     To that old dead city whose carol
     Bursts out like a reveller’s loud in the night,
     As he sits astride his barrel.

     III

     We two were bound the Alps to scale,
     Up the rock-reflecting river;
     Old times blew thro’ me like a gale,
     And kept my thoughts in a quiver.

     IV

     Hawking ruin, wood-slope, and vine
     Reeled silver-laced under my vision,
     And into me passed, with the green-eyed wine
     Knocking hard at my head for admission.

     V

     I held the village lily cheap,
     And the dream around her idle: 
     Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep,
     The bells led me off to a bridal.

     VI

     My bride wore the hood of a Beguine,
     And mine was the foot to falter;
     Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen;
     The Cross was of bones o’er the altar.

     VII

     The Cross was of bones; the priest that read,
     A spectacled necromancer: 
     But at the fourth word, the bride I led
     Changed to an Opera dancer.

     VIII

     A young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place,
     A darling of pink and spangles;
     One fair foot level with her face,
     And the hearts of men at her ankles.

     IX

     She whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned,
     And quickly his mask unriddled;
     ’Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned;
     Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.

     X

     He fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire,
     Like Sathanas in feature: 
     All through me he fiddled a wolfish desire
     To dance with that bright creature.

     XI

     And gathering courage I said to my soul,
     Throttle the thing that hinders! 
     When the three cowled monks, from black as coal,
     Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.