LVI

THE SOUL TO THE BODY

I know thou hast a secret of thine own Which I desire. But once I broke with thee And walked among the asphodel alone:  Therefore thou wilt reserve this reverie, Like sumptuous flame closed up in alabaster. They half betray, these curious magian hands: Faint music of thy breast has throbbed the faster, If I have touched it with my charming-wands. And yet,—the wonder any woman knows Thou dost deny the proud Soul that has fed Among the lilies of the White Eros.—  Ere I go down among the witless Dead Give, give the secret, for my bliss or rue, Lest lack of that should craze my wisdom through.

 

 

 

 

LVII

THE IRONIST

Among high gods the absolute ironist Is Love. Therefore, when some cleft lightning mocks Thine arrogant rapture, sad idealist, Admire the wild play of his paradox. Great satires of reversal have astounded His bigots: proud fine dreamers confident Before an idol in their image are hounded Through comedies of disillusionment. Not heavenly Plato, not the Florentine, Not any mage of Epipsychidion Can the true nature of the god divine. Heresiarchs like Heine and like Donne, Bitter and sweet, and hot and cold, know best The incomparable anguish of his jest.

 

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