was, behind it all. And I have seen her there within her house, With six great sapphires hung along the wall, Low, panel-shaped, a-level with her knees, And all her robe was woven of pale gold. There are there many rooms and all of gold, Of woven walls deep patterned, of email, Of beaten work; and through the claret stone, Set to some weaving, comes the aureate light. Here am I come perforce my love of her, Behold mine adoration Maketh me clear, and there are powers in this Which, played on by the virtues of her soul, Break down the four-square walls of standing time. VIII THE FLAME  'Tis not a game that plays at mates and mating, Provençe knew; 'Tis not a game of barter, lands and houses, Provençe knew. We who are wise beyond your dream of wisdom, Drink our immortal moments; we "pass through." We have gone forth beyond your bonds and borders, Provençe knew; And all the tales they ever writ of Oisin Say but this: That man doth pass the net of days and hours. Where time is shrivelled down to time's seed corn We of the Ever-living, in that light Meet through our veils and whisper, and of love. O smoke and shadow of a darkling world, Barters of passion, and that tenderness That's but a sort of cunning! O my Love, These, and the rest, and all the rest we knew.  'Tis not a game that plays at mates and mating, 'Tis not a game of barter, lands and houses, 'Tis not "of days and nights" and troubling years, Of cheeks grown sunken and glad hair gone gray; There is the subtler music, the clear light Where time burns back about th' eternal embers. We are not shut from all the thousand heavens: Lo, there are many gods whom we have seen, Folk of unearthly fashion, places splendid, Bulwarks of beryl and of chrysophrase. Sapphire Benacus, in thy mists and thee Nature herself's turned metaphysical, Who can look on that blue and not believe? Thou hooded opal, thou eternal pearl, O thou dark secret with a shimmering floor, Through all thy various mood I know thee mine; If I have merged my soul, or utterly Am solved and bound in, through aught here on earth, There canst thou find me, O thou anxious thou, Who call'st about my gates for some lost me; I say my soul flowed back, became translucent. Search not my lips, O Love, let go my hands, This thing that moves as man is no more mortal. If thou hast seen my shade sans character, If thou hast seen that mirror of all moments, That glass to all things that o'ershadow it, Call not that mirror me, for I have slipped Your grasp, I have eluded. IX  (HORAE BEATAE INSCRIPTIO)  How will this beauty, when I am far hence, Sweep back upon me and engulf my mind! How will these hours, when we twain are gray, Turned in their sapphire tide, come flooding o'er us! X  (THE ALTAR)  Let us build here an exquisite 

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