The wanderer halted,


    looking back at dreams,


    as pure as snow,


    for the tread of aureate-footed light


    lay far behind,


    still drowned in twilight''s


    stagnant purples,


    toiling up even to the very threshold


    of the heavens,


    He heard the eagles hail the sun


    Round the forsaken throne


    of a nameless god,


    until the morning''s levin-colored ray


    lightened the back of the fallen angel,


    and he paused,


    while over him ethereal glory glowed


    rousing the dreaming colors


    in the clouds


    to give the sea its


    immemorial green


    and strike the towering cities


    of their memories


    into gold along the low horizon.


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    Returning vision flowed,


    power revived his ailing limbs,


    and he sought to define


    reality by ascertaining meaning


    from the tellurian shapes and images


    of dreams:


    the effigies of men


    and women dancing


    before bonfires,


    The noontide shapes of


    devils in the clouds,


    The meres that curve in the darkening


    night towards a memory


    of Pandemonium


    and the chaos that birthed the stars.


    Demon moons blaze paths


    across the midnight sky:


    The watch-fires of


    the ever vigilant gaze


    flame like fallen stars,


    a eternal crown of gold


    on a coveted horizon,


    forever out of reach.