XIX

THE SEEKER

Curious and wistful through your soul I go. With silver-tinkling feet I penetrate Sealed chambers, and a puissant incense throw Upon the smouldering braziers, love and hate: And chaunt the grievèd verses of a dirge For dying gods, remembering flutes and shawms: With perverse moods I trouble you, and urge The sense to beauty. Give me some sweet alms, Some reverie, some pang of a damasked sword, Some poignant moment yet unparalleled In my dream-broidered chronicles, some chord Of mystery Love's music never knelled Before;—but nought of the rough alchemy That disillusions all felicity.

 

 

 

 

XX

THE HIDDEN REVERIE

The life of plants, rising through dim sweet states, Cloisters the rich love-secret more and more, Gathers it jealously within the gates Of the hushed heart; but, mightier than before, The mystery prevails and overpowers Stem, leaf, and petal. So the passion lies In this tranced flowery being which is ours Like to a hidden wound; yet softly dyes With dolorous beauty all the stuff of life, Each dream and vision and desire subduing With muted pulses, that great counter-strife Of soul with its own rhythmic pangs imbuing. Deny it and disdain it. Lo! there beat Red stigmata in heart and hands and feet.

 

 

 

 

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