V

THE WEDDING-GARMENT

Thought it be blither than roses in thine eyes, Shall I not rend this raiment of pangs and fears, This Colchian cloth white flames ensorcelise, This gaudy-veil distained with blood and tears?— What praise? "O marriage-beauty garlanded For festival, O sumptuous flowery stole For rites of adoration!"—See instead A cilice drenched with torment of my soul! Nevertheless the fibres implicate Proud exultations; burning, have revealed Rich throes of triumph, sweetness passionate As painèd lilies reared in thorn-plots yield. Ah! silver wedding-garment of the bride, Ah! fiery cilice, I am satisfied!

 

 

 

 

VI

THE DEATH OF PROCRIS

Come gaze on Procris, poor soon-perished child! Why did her innocent virginity Follow Desire within his arrowy wild? She dies pursuing the cruel ecstasy That keeps as mortal wounds for them that find. Serene her pensive body lies at last Like a mown poppy-flower to sleep resigned, Softly resigned. The wildwood things aghast, With pitiful hearts instinctive, sweet as hers, Approach her now: love, death, and virgin grace, Blue distance, and the stricken foresters, And all the dreaming, healing, woodland place Are patterned into tender melodies Of lovely line and hue—a music of peace!

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