TO M. S. T.
Elixir brims the vase of gold,The purple hills draw near,The mysteries of old, of old,Are coming clear.Elixir brims the cup of gold,The sparkle quivers at the brimAnd falls in shining showers,—I see beyond the purple rimThe radiant towers.Elixir brims the vase of gold;In ecstasy my spirit criesTo those far fanes, Behold! Behold!And upward flies.Far—far—I see with vision's eyesThe sun-gates open flare,—On soaring pinions I ariseStrong, eagle-wise.The mysteries of old, of old,Are coming clear,The purple hills grow near,Elixir brims the vase of gold.
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