LVIII

IN VAIN

I said: "Confession's bitter cautery Shall fierily search my soul, destroy her ill." Natheless, the wounded wasting malady Is her unexorcised sad sovran still. Oh! that alembic fever of interwed Desire and dream and sense, rapture and rue! As soon as my sincerest words are said And heard they seem apostate and untrue. For only speech more richly dubious Than shoaling water, or a ringdove's breast, Than lighted incense more miraculous With fumes of strange remembrance, could attest The morbid beauty of that wasting ill Whereof I am the cureless lover still.

 

 

 

 

LIX

RESERVATIONS

Though cold clear cruelties like diamond Burthen this silken text of dim surmise, Surely thou knowest I am pity's bond If one but look at me with stricken eyes. If like a herald I have blazoned Pride, I am Humility's own renegade. For fruits of good and evil have I sighed? If Love forbid them, Love shall be obeyed. Though the wroth soul may excommunicate Her body, yet I see the flagrant strife Of earthy and heavenly elements create Colour, change, music. For the Tree of Life Burns with this precious mystery of sorrows That Love the Phoenix find immortal morrows.

 

 

 

 

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