that, when I awaken, I never can deny I have partaken.

 

 

 

 

XV

MEMORIA SUBMERSA

Can souls forget what bodies keep the while? Is this among their dark antinomies? The spiritual joy is volatile:  The flesh is faithful to her memories. This living silk, this inarticulate Remembrance of the nerves enwinds us fast: Delicate cells, obscure and obstinate, Secrete the bitter essence of the Past. Ah! Was the fading web of rose and white All macerated by the kisses of old As rare French queens with perfume? (So, by night, They lived like lilies mid their cloth-of-gold.) Within the sense, howe'er the soul abjure, Like flavours and fumes these ancient things endure.

 

 

 

 

XVI

A PORTRAIT BY VENEZIANO

Strange dancing-girl with curls of golden wire, With strait white veil, and sinister jewel strung Upon your brows, your sombre eyes desire Some secret thing. Garlanded leaves are young Around your head, and, in your beauty's hours, Venice yet loved that joy's enthusiast Be frail, fantastic as gilt iris-flowers. O startling reveller from out the Past, Long, long ago through lanes of chrysophrase The Dark Eros compelled his exquisite Evil apostle. This painter made your praise, A piece of art, a curious delight. But your ghost wanders. Yesterday your sweet Accusing 

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