gods their secret wisdom hide away.

 

 

 

 

XLVI

THE INVENTORY

TO HER FRIEND

I love all sumptuous things and delicate, Ethereal matters richly paradised In Art's proud certitudes. I love the great Greek vases, carven ivory, subtilised Arras of roses, Magians dyed on glass, Graven chalcedony and sardonyx, Nocturnes that through the nerves like fever pass, Arthurian kings, Love on the crucifix, All sweet mysterious verse, the Byzantine Gold chambers of Crivelli, marble that flowers In shy adoring angels, patterned vine And lotos, and emblazoned Books of Hours,— And you, whose smiling eyes to ironies Reduce both me and mine idolatries.

 

 

 

 

XLVII

COMFORT

I

I sang the Dolorous Stroke of Disillusion, Yet never have I broken faith with Joy: Flame-broidered trance and starless cold confusion Of slain and flying dreams shall not destroy The radiant oath to that bright Suzerain Whose lightning-lovely succour ambushed lies Even in the most impossible strait of pain. Mystical paradox, divine surprise Of rapture! By intensities alone Their spirits enter in to exultation For whom the burning winds of their sad zone Bear down the Dove of the Imagination, Who suffer superbly, in scarlet 

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