VII

THE WARNING

As delicate gorgeous rains of dusky gold Heavy white lilies, Love importunate Besets the soul,—as that wild Splendour told Pale Danaë her haughty heavenly fate. Not speared in burning points but spun in strands My senses: drowsily burning webs are they That veil me head to foot. While on mine hands And hair and lids thy kisses die away Through all my being their strange echoes thrill And from the body's flowery mysticism I draw the last white honey. What is thine ill? What wouldst thou more of that great symbolism? Beyond this ultimate moment nothing lies But moonless cold and darkness. Ah! be wise!

 

 

 

 

VIII

THE ACCUSATION

Mere night! The unconsenting Soul stands by, A moaning protestant. "Ah, not for this, And not for this, through rose and thorn was I Drawn to surrender and the bridal-kiss. Annunciations lit with jewelled wings Of sudden angels mid the lilies tall, Proud prothalamia chaunting enraptured things,—  O sumptuous fables, why so prodigal Of masque and music, of dreams like foam-white swans On lakes of hyacinthus? Must Love seek Great allies, Beauty sound her arrière-bans That all her splendours betray us to this bleak Simplicity whereto blind satyrs run?"— The irony seems old, old as the sun.

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