Dark beauty, II

Pardon me, you dreamers of peace and prosperity,
A song as mine should damn the singer,
As alike is lost both tranquil mind and eye,
When innocence shatters before the sea.
Yet like the plow of land, the shade of night,
I, when ripe was the day and full the moon,
Dreamt of shifting orbs and August noon;
That sun would wreathe the other in fire and light,
And boil away that milk from the moon.

Have not all the pacific times in past,
Alike all the empires and their crowns been lost,
Sank their secrets in fleeter stream? So do sink,
All the sundry teams that hang from the brink,
All the mellow worlds that seek the skies,
And who before the wreathed moon avert their eyes.
So, you crushers of empires in verge of defeat,
You waxing powers of unsure strength,
Sink your thunderbolts in shallow lands,
And wring from your drums a warring beat;
So that no August noon with Cynthia's grace,
Shall award to futile and waning race,
And when her fiery wreath is gone,
I hope the work of sinking swords is done.