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Poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Upon the summit of his Century He reared a Palace of enduring Art, From whose wild windows never more depart Beauty's pale light and starry fantasy: Within is music, sobbing ceaselessly; And phantom terror, spectres of the heart And ghosts of grief and love that ever start From haunted places, fleeing what none may see. Around its towers the bird, that never dies, Circles; the tempest beats with black alarm On one red window where, beyond the storm, The Lord of that high Palace dreams and sighs, His Soul, with its Despair, a kingly form, And Death with infinite pity in his eyes.
Madison Julius Cawein
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