XXV

THE ANAESTHETIC

Like a white moth caught heavily, heavily, In the honeyed heart of some white drowsy flower, I lay behind the leaves of apathy, Where not the reddest pang has any power. Then, like one drowning, I rose and lapsed again On dim sweet tides of the great anodyne. Why must they hale me back to drink the pain That seethes in consciousness, an evil wine? I love the closing trances, howsoever Their seals be broken: they are wise and kind. If death can give such fumes of poppy, never Shall I revile him. Oh! uncertain mind! Hast thou an equal pleasure in the proud Flame-builded pillar, and the pillar of cloud?

 

 

 

 

XXVI

DIVINATION

I weary of your hesitating will; This flicker of "should" and "should not" crazes me. Rest from these vain debates of good and ill:  Let me your secret swift diviner be. In the memorial blue dusk of sense, Where, spirals of doves or wreaths of ravens, rise Auguries sweet or dread, the blue dusk whence The cresseted houses of the stars surprise The heart with their mysterious horoscopes, I know the issues ere great battles begin, The ashen values of bright-burning hopes, The ultimate hours of sacrifice or sin. Do I obey the Wisdom? If I list, I too, beloved, can play the casuist.

 

 

 

 

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