eyes challenged me in the street.

 

 

 

 

XVII

THE ENIGMA

Eternally grieving and arraigning eyes, Why vex my heart? What is it I can do? Can I call back the hounds of Time with sighs, Or find inviolate peace to bring you to, Pluck frenzy from the amazed soul of man, Or curb the horses of raging poverty That trample you until—escape who can,—  Or spill the honey from rich revelry And strip the silken days?—Alas! alas! I am so dream-locked that I cannot know Why it is not much easier to pass To death than let love's haughty cloister show A common hostel for such taverners.— Ye know, who are perhaps my ransomers.

 

 

 

 

XVIII

THE DOUBT

I am pure, because of great illuminations Of dreamy doctrine caught from poets of old, Because of delicate imaginations, Because I am proud, or subtle, or merely cold. Natheless my soul's bright passions interchange As the red flames in opal drowse and speak: In beautiful twilight paths the elusive strange Phantoms of personality I seek. If better than the last embraces I Love the lit riddles of the eyes, the faint Appeal of merely courteous fingers,—why, Though 'tis a quest of souls, and I acquaint My heart with spiritual vanities,— Is there indeed no bridge twixt me and these?

 

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