XXIII THE JUSTIFICATION Life I adore, and not Life's accidents. A garlanded and dream-fast thurifer My Soul comes out from beauty's purple tents That incense-troubled Love may grieve and stir, Be ransomed from satiety's sad graves, And go to God up the bright stair of Wonder. Since passion makes immortal Time's tired slaves I am of those that delicately sunder Corruptions of contentment from the breast As with rare steel. Like music I unveil Last things, till, weary of earthen cups and rest, You seek Montsalvat and the burning Grail. Ah! blindly, blindly, wounded with the roses, I bear my spice where Ecstasy reposes. XXIV ASPIRATIONS Light of great swords, banners all blazoned gold, Bright lists of danger where with trumpets pass Riders like those for whom bride-bells are bold To beautiful desperate conflict, Michaelmas Of golden heroes, how my sad soul saith Your praise! Nor does to you her love deny, Solemn strange Cups that carry dreamy death To quench those fevers when they flame too high. But now the Victories have broken wings; The spirit of Rapture from the day of deeds Is banished, and must spend on sorcerous strings Her heart that perishes of splendid needs.— Saints, lovers, high crusaders, give me too Some simple and impassioned thing to do.