Collected Works (Vol. III)

THE STAR AND THE GARTER I! _ Shall this avail to stagger thought, Confuse the reason, bring to nought The rosebud, in reflecting: Hem! What beauty hath the flower and stem? Carbon we know, and nitrogen, And oxygen—are these a rose? But this though everybody knows, That this should be the same for men They know not. Death may decompose, Reduce to primal hyle perchance— I shall not do it in advance! So let the accidental fact That these are women, fall away To black oblivion: be the pact Concluded firm enough to-day, Not thus to err. So you are not In essence or in function one With these, the unpardonable blot On knighthood’s shield, the sombre spot Seen on the photosphere of sun. XXIII. ‘*Nay! that were nothing,” say you now, Poor baby of the weary brow, Struggling with metaphysic lore? “* But these, being women, gave you more: 3 $ You spoke of love!” Indeed I did, And you must counter me unbid, Forgetting how we must define This floral love of yours and mine. That love and this are as diverse As Shelley’s poems and my verse. And now the bright laugh comes in spite Of all the cruel will can do. “T take,” you say, ‘‘a keen delight In Shelley, but as much in you.” There, you are foolish. And you know The thing I meant to say. O love! What little lightnings serve to show Glimpses of all your heart! Above All, and beneath all, lies there deep, Canopied over with young sleep, Bowered in the lake of nenuphars, Watched by the countless store of stars, The abiding love you bear me. Hear Ylow perfect love casts flying fear | Are utterly apart. Forth from its chambers! Those and this The bliss Of this small quarrel far exceeds That dervish rapture, dancer deeds Strained for egregious emphasis. These touch you not! You sit alone Passionless upon passion’s throne, And there is love. Look not below, Lest aught disturb the silver flow Of harmonies of love! Awake ! Awake for love’s own solar sake ! Diverse devotion we divide From the one overflowing tide. Despise this fact! So lone and far Lies the poor garter, that I gaze Thither; it casts no vivid rays. But hither? I behold the star ! XXIV. Now your grave eyes are filled with tears; Your hands are trembling in my own ; The slow voice falls upon my ears, An undulating monotone. Your lips are gathered up to mine ; Your bosom heaves with fearful breath ; Your scent is keen as floral wine, Inviting me, and love, to death. You, whom I kept, a sacred shrine, Will fling the portals to the day ; Where shone the moon the sun shall shine, Silver in scarlet melt away. There is yet a pang: they give me this Who can; and you who could have failed? Is it too late to extend the kiss? Too late the goddess be unveiled? O but the generous flower that gives Her kisses to the violent sun, Yet none the less in ardour lives An hour, and then her day is done. Back from my lips, back from my breast ! I hold you as I always will, You unprofaned and uncaressed, Silent, majestical, and still. Back ! for I love you. Even yet Do you not see my deepest fire Burn through the veils and coverings set By fatuous phantoms of desire?