The Secret Splendour

Ilda

(From the French of Albert Samain)

Hers the still charm, the cold magnetic spell

Of a Norwegian autumn-dawn's pale glow;

Into harmonious calm around her fell

The thoughts of men, like footsteps hushed in snow.

Mingled with the brief tremor of human breath

Her countenance bore a tranquil prophecy

Of the infinite grandeur that enhaloes death,

Making all laughter seem a blasphemy.

World-strange desire plying an oar of dream

 Roamed through the fathomless azure of her eye.

Lost in vague play with her curls' coiling stream,

 She poured from her mood's far effulgences

 On all she touched a hue of mystery,

And lived in the rapture of deep silences.

Page 32