This night is not of gentle draperies

or cluster’d banners where the star-breaths roam,

nor hangs above the torch a lurching dome

of purple shade that slips with phantom ease;

but, on our apathy encroaching, these,

stable, whose smooth defiance none hath clomb,

basalt and jade, a patience of the gnome,

polish’d and shadow-brimm’d transparencies.

Far, where our oubliette is shut, above,

we guess the ample lids that never move

beneath her brows, each massive arch inert

hung high-contemptuous o’er the blatant wars

we deem’d well waged for her, who may avert

some Janus-face that smiles on hidden stars.