Collected Works (Vol. III)

THE STAR AND THE GARTER 13 XXVII. Do you recall? Could I forget? How once the full moon shone above, Over the houses, and we let Loose rein upon the steeds of love? How kisses fled to kisses, rain Of fiery dew upon the soul Kindled, till ecstasy was pain ; Desire, delight : and swift control Leapt from the lightning, as the cloud Disparted, rended, from us twain, And we were one: the aerial shroud Closed on us, shall not lift again For aught we do: O glamour grown Inseparable and alone ! And then we knew as now the tune Our lives were set to, and sang back Across the sky toward the moon Into the cloud’s dissolving wrack, Vanished for ever. And we found Coprolite less than chrysolite, Flowers fairer than their food, the ground ; We knew our destiny, saw how Man’s fate is written on his brow, And how our love throughout was hewn And masked and moulded by the moon. XXVIII. AND who is then the moon? Bend close, And clothe me in a silken kiss, And I will whisper to my rose The secret name of Artemis. Words were not needed then: to-day Must I begin what never I thought To do: mould flowers in common clay? Mud casket of mere words is nought, When by love’s miracle we guess What either always thinketh. Yes? XXIX. So, love, not thus for you and me! And if Iam man, no more, expect T shall remain so, till, maybe, The anatomist, old Time, dissect Me, nerve from flesh, and bone from bone, And raise me spiritual, changed In all but love for you, my own ; The little matter rearranged, The little mind refigured. This Alone I hope or think to keep :— The love I bear you, and the kiss Too soft to call the breath of sleep. And, if you are woman, even there I do decline: we stand above. I ask not, and will take no share With you in what mankind call love. We know each other: you and I Have nought to do with lesser things. With them—’tis chance or destiny : With us, we should but burn our wings. We love, and keep ourselves apart : Mouth unto mouth, heart unto heart, Thus ever, never otherwise. The soul is out of me, and swings In desperate and strange surmise About the inmost heart of things. This is all strange: but is not life, Death, all, most strange, not to be told, Not to be understood by strife Of brain, nor bought for gleaming gold, Nor known by aught but love? And love Far from resolving soul to sense, Stands isolated and above Immaculate, alone, intense, Concentrate on itself. But should The lesser leave me, as it might ; The lesser never touch you ; would Your will be one with my delight? Leave all the thoughts and miseries ! Invade the glowing fields of sun ! Cross bleak inhospitable seas, Until this hour be past and done, And we in some congenial clime Are then reborn, where danger’s nought To mock the old Parisian time When fear was still the child of thought ! So we could love, and love, and fate Never clang brutal on the gong, And lunch, man-eating tiger, wait Crouched in the jungles of my song;