Sometimes we tire. Upon the sods We set the great enamels by, Wherein the occult odours lie, And play with children on the sods.

Yet soon we take, O jealous gods, Those gracious caskets once again, Storied with oracles of pain, That keep the spices for the gods.

We carry spices to the gods. Like sumptuous cold chalcedony Our weary breasts and hands must be To carry spices to the gods.

 

 

 

 

I

THE PRELUDE

Thou sayest, "O pure Palace of my Pleasures, O Doors of Ivory, let the King come in. With silver lamps before him, and with measures Of low lute-music let him come. Begin, Ye suppliant lilies and ye frail white roses, Imploring sweetnesses of hands and eyes, To let Love through to the most secret closes Of all his flowery Court of Paradise." . . . Sunder the jealous gates. Thine ivory Castle Is hung with scarlet, is the Convent of Pain. With purple and with spice indeed the Vassal  Receives her King whom dark desires constrain. Rejoice, rejoice!—But far from flutes and dances The cloistered Soul lies frozen in her trances.

 

 

 

 

II

PERILS

Ah! Since from subtle silk of agony Our veils of lamentable flesh are spun, Since Time in spoiling violates, and we In that strait Pass of Pangs may be undone, Since the mere natural flower and withering Of these our bodies terribly distil Strange poisons, since an alien Lust may fling On any autumn day some torch to fill Our pale Pavilion of dreaming lavenders With frenzy, till it is a Tower of Flame Wherein the soul shrieks burning, since the myrrhs And music of our beauty are mixed with shame Inextricable,—some drug of poppies give This bitter ecstasy whereby we live!

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