Collected Works (Vol. III)

8 THE STAR AND THE GARTER I spend a fraction of the day Plying the art of manicure. But always beats the heart: the more I polish, tint, or carve, I ask Strength from the heart’s too generous store To bend my fingers to the task. Cease: Iam broken: nought remains. The brain’s electric waves are still ; No blood beats eager in the veins ; The mind sinks deathward, and the will. It is no figure of boy’s speech, Lover’s enthusiasm, rhyme Magniloquent of bard, to reach Truth through the husk of space and time: No truth is more devout than this: ‘€In you I live: I live in you.” Had Latmos not known Artemis, Where were the faint lights of that dew Of Keats? O maiden moon of mine, Imperial crescent, rise and shine ! XVI. I was a fool to hide it. Here Phantoms arise and disappear, Obedient to the master’s wand. The incense curls like a pale frond Of some grey garden glory about This room ; I take my sceptre out, My royal crown; invoke, evoke These phantoms in the glimmering smoke ; And you shall see—and take no hurt— The very limb yon garter girt. XVII. IT AMaman. Consider first What we may learn, if but we will, From that small lecture I rehearsed With very Huxley’s strength and skill And clarity. What do I mean, Admitting manhood? This: to-day I fed on oysters, ris-de-veau, Beefsteak and grapes. Will you repay My meal with anger, rosy grow With shame because instead of you I went to feed chez Lavenue?! The habit anthropophagous, Nice as it is, is not for us. I love you: will you share my life, Become my mistress or my wife? Agreed : but can your kisses feed me? Is it for dinner that you need me? But think : it is for you I eat. Even as the object that I see, The brain ’tis pictured in ; the beat Of nerves that mean the picture are Not like it, but dissimilar. How can a nervous current be Like that Velasquez? So I find Dinner a function of the mind, Not like you, but essential to (Even it) my honest love of you. Consider then yon broidered toy In the same aspect ! Steals no joy Glittering beneath the sad pale face? XVITI. STILL grave, my budding Arahat? I see the crux of my disgrace Lies in the mad idea that—that !— Is not dissimilar, usurps The very function I have given Blissful beyond the bliss of heaven— Aha! there is a bird that chirps Another song. Here’s paint and brush And canvas. I will paint anon The limb yon garter once was on ; Sketch you a nude—my soul—and nude The very human attitude We all assume—or else are posers. Such winners are the surest losers. I paint her picture, recognise— Dare you ?—one glimmer of her eyes Like yours, one shimmer of her skin Like that your flesh is hidden in, One laugh upon her lips enough Like yours for me to recollect, 1 A famous restaurateur in the Place de Rennes.