violetted, As the Sacred Kings of the Lillie mourned their dead.*

* See Favine's "Book of Chivalry."

 

 

 

 

XLVIII

COMFORT

II

And that is marvellous comfort;—and yet poor To what mere woman-mystery can give, The strange simplicity that will endure The pangs of death, most resolute to live. This God of riddles that shaped a thing so frail For his worst torment hid mysterious powers Within her breast who can like lilies prevail Through rains of doom that conquer brassy towers. Her heart lies broken; when some trivial chord Of sweetness chimes reveille through the sense,— A rose, a song, a smile, a courtly word. She wakes, and sighs, and softly passes thence Back to the masquers, though her soul's veiled Pyx Enclose the solemn fruits of the Crucifix.

 

 

 

 

XLIX

THE CHANGE

I spun my soul about with soft cocoons Of pleasure golden-pale. For me, for me Were precious things put forth by crescent moons, Of pearl and milky jade and ivory. Grave players on ethereal harpsichords, My senses wrought a music exquisite As patterned roses, all my life's accords Were richer, ghostlier than peacocks white. So in my paradise reserved and fair I grew as dreamlike as the Elysian dead; Until a passing Wizard smote me there, And suddenly my soul inherited Some gorgeous terrible dukedom of desire Like those in bright Andromeda's realms of fire.

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