Collected Works (Vol. III)

164 ORPHEUS Nor would I suffer thus, nor she repine Had my wife faded (as rose-tinted wine Bleached in the sunlight) reached her period And fallen gently in the arms divine, Caressing arms of pale Persephone, And bathed her in death’s river tenderly, Washing the whole bright body, the long limbs, The clothing hair, the face, the witchery Of all the smiling shape in the dark stream, As one who gathers the first floral beam Of daylight by the water, dives and swims Deep in cool alleys, softer than a dream : So, rising to the other bank, aglow With the bright motion and the stream’s young flow, She might discover the Elysian ground, And find me waiting, find me sad and slow Pacing the green flower-lighted turf, and leap Into my body’s kisses, into sleep :— Sweeter this latter bridal than we found The first, now lost in time’s eternal deep. It is not cruel if the ripe fruit fall— But never an elegy funereal Wept for untimely burial, but cried Aloud against the Fates, forebore to call In pity or passion on the Gods of peace ; But cursed, but wailed, nor bade its sharp tongue cease Until the lightning spat, sharp to divide Bone from its marrow for their blasphemies ! So I should curse, unless indeed my grief Be not too great to yield me such relief. Methinks a sob must start and mar the roar Of loud harsh laughing bitter unbelief Scarring the sky with poisonous foam of song. Also, what curse might remedy the wrong? Are not all feuds forgotten in a war? All stars exhausted in Astrzea’s throng When the swift sun leaps skyward? Let me speak Words rather of wisdom: hate may rage and wreak Vengeance if vain if wisdom smile beyond, Too high to care, too ultimate to seek. The bitterést sorrow of all sorrow is this : I had no time to catch one last long kiss, Nor bid farewell, nor lay one lily-frond Of resurrection for the sign of bliss, Remembrance of some immortality Affirmed if not believed : alas for me That might not interchange the last sad vows, Nor close the blue eyes clearer than the sea Before they darkened, and the veil of death Shrouded their splendour: still there lingereth Some sad white lustre’on the icy brows, Some breast-curve surely indicating breath, Some misty glamour of deep love within The eye’s cold gléam ! some dimple on the chin Hinting of laughter: even now she seems A folded rosebud, where the ivory skin Closes the ripe warm centre flower, the mind, The spirit that-was beautifully kind, The sense of beauty shadowed in deep dreams, Sent through the horn gates by some sleepy wind. All lingers: all is gone: a little while, And all the live sweet rapture of the smile Of her whole being is discomfited, The body broken, desolated, vile, Till nought remains but the memorial urn Of deep red gold, less golden than did burn Once the strong breast : the ash within is shed, Dust given for flowers: what memory shall turn