L

AT THE END

The fiery permutations of the soul Are infinite, but how to be revealed? On what impassive matter must the whole Inveterate coil of good and ill be sealed! How much too simple all the tale of deeds To pattern out these labyrinthine things, These knots of bright unreason, ghostly bredes Veiled weavers weave, moving with silver wings Within the duskling sense. Most diverse visions Their visionaries darkly reconcile At one sad end. Fate's delicate derisions Through the same hell of penance may beguile Two women, who meet with alien eyes downcast; Yet one stand first with Love, and one the last.

 

 

 

 

LI

THE SOUL OF AGE

I have seen delicate aged women wrought Most tenderly by Time, their passionate past By the wise vigils of forgiving thought Amerced of pain, mere beauty at the last. So may my soul be chaste, serene, enriched Like an Etruscan mirror one has found In kind oblivions, graciously bewitched With precious patinas, a various round Of milky opal, or turkis, or emerald, Glistered with rubies faint and smoky pearls, Where swirls of incised pattern have enthralled Figures of sweet archaic gods and girls, And I shall say: "Thou art a curious toy, O soul that mirrored Love and Wrath and Joy!"

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