THE EQUINOX
Well do I know my magic shall not avail
To unveil thee.
Too well I know I may not hope to impale thee
On the spear of my song; my song
Is thine, and thou dost not remain for long:
Thou tarriest not at all,
Thou guardest all men’s bale
Within the web of the Mystery called Time.
And so no rime
Of beauty or of truth shall serve
Thee, until thou shalt swerve
And fall.
Who shall undo the wrong?
What hand shall set thee free?
And who shall lend his light that it may bring
An end to the light I sing?
My song, my song
Is blasphemy to thee,
Who knowest naught, I know, of thee and me;
But only the wild grace,
Abandoned, but in silent harmony,
Under the starred sky’s face,
Under the green hills, free
In the most sacred time, in the most secret place,
Is thine.
Oh, Wine! Wine! Wine!
Sang the poet of the world.
But what wine may suit thee,
Thee, with thy petals curled,
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