The Palace of Art

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
      Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
    I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
       Dear soul, for all is well."
     A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
      I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
    From level meadow-bases of deep grass
       Suddenly scaled the light.
     Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
     The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
   My soul would live alone unto herself
      In her high palace there.

    And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
     "Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
   Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
      Sleeps on his luminous ring."

    To which my soul made answer readily:
     "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
   In this great mansion, that is built for me,
      So royal-rich and wide."* * * * *

    Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
     In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
   The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
      A flood of fountain-foam.

    And round the cool green courts there ran a row
     Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
   Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
      Of spouted fountain-floods.

    And round the roofs a gilded gallery
     That lent broad verge to distant lands,
   Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
      Dipt down to sea and sands.

    From those four jets four currents in one swell
     Across the mountain stream'd below
   In misty folds, that floating as they fell
      Lit up a torrent-bow.

    And high on every peak a statue seem'd
     To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
   A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
      From out a golden cup.

    So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
     My palace with unblinded eyes,
   While this great bow will waver in the sun,
      And that sweet incense rise?"

    For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
     And, while day sank or mounted higher,
   The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd,
      Burnt like a fringe of fire.

    Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
     Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
   From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
      And tipt with frost-like spires.* * * * *

    Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
     That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
   Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
      Well-pleased, from room to room.

    Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
     All various, each a perfect whole
   From living Nature, fit for every mood
      And change of my still soul.

    For some were hung with arras green and blue,
     Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
   Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
      His wreathed bugle-horn.

    One seem'd all dark and red--a tract of sand,
     And some one pacing there alone,
   Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
      Lit with a low large moon.

    One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
     You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
   And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
      Beneath the windy wall.

    And one, a full-fed river winding slow
     By herds upon an endless plain,
   The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
      With shadow-streaks of rain.

    And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
     In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
   Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
      And hoary to the wind.

    And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
     Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
   All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
      And highest, snow and fire.

    And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd
     On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
   Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
      A haunt of ancient Peace.

    Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
     As fit for every mood of mind,
   Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
      Not less than truth design'd.* * * * *

    Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
     In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
   Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
      Sat smiling, babe in arm.

    Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
     Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
   Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
      An angel look'd at her.

    Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
     A group of Houris bow'd to se