When the Soul travails in her Night Obscure, The nadir of her desperate defeat, What heavenly dream shall help her to endure, What flaming Wisdom be her Paraclete? No curious Metaphysic can withhold The heart from that mandragora she craves:— Unreasonable, old as Earth is old, The blind ecstatic miracle that saves. Far off the pagan trumpeters of Pride Call to the blood.—Love moans.—Some fiery fashion Of rapture like the anguish of the bride Leaps from the dark perfection of the Passion, Crying: "O beautiful God, still torture me, For if thou slay me, I will trust in Thee."

 

 

 

 

XLIV

THE CONQUEST OF IMMORTALITY

Ah! not in earthy dull durations I Mine heirdom of Eternity implore. Give one star-drunken moment ere I die, Then doom me dreadless to the implacable Door. That mystical Assumption shall disown Time's haughtiest lieges. Grey mortality Will disenchant the jewel-breded throne Of Cassiopeia when more burningly My deed exults with angels. I will borrow From continuity no larva-lease: Through sworded crises and great compts of sorrow I seek the splendour that shall never cease Though Death coin from my soul through endless years Dim drachmas of his infinite arrears.

 

 

 

 

XLV

WOMEN OF TANAGRA

Have these forgotten they are toys of Death That in his sad aphelions of desire They still regret the joy that perisheth, And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,— Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes With almost wanton grace, the craft and art Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart? They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil. Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed The burning brooding wings which never fail! Still in such lovely vanities to-day The 

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