XXXVII

DESTINY

The great religions of the Rose and Grape Have bound us in to their sad Paradise: We dream in crucial symbols, nor escape The cypress-garden where the slain god lies. Daughters of lamentation round the Cross Where Beauty suffers garlanded with thorn, Remembrancers through all the Night of Loss, We bear the spikenard of the Easter Morn. The yearning Springs, the brooding Autumns seethe Like philtres in our veins. O dark Election, Are then the sacrificial doors we wreathe With lilies fiery gates of Resurrexion? And does the passion of our spices feed Love's bright Arabian miracle indeed?

 

 

 

 

XXXVIII

CONFLICT

Why should a woman find her dream of love Irised by the strange ecstasy of Art? Is not Eros a terrible lord enough That she must bear both Hunters of the heart, The Golden Archer and the Scarlet too? Then bitter anomalies annul her choir Of puissant and subtle instincts, rended through By gorgeous dualisms of vain-desire. For Love outrages Art's clear disciplines, And Art lures Love to guilt of cryptic treason: The spirit of imagination pines, Captive in webs of exquisite unreason. Alas for this translated soul of hers, The rose's, that must be the garlander's!

 

 

 

 

XXXIX

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