Collected Works (Vol. III)

ROSA MUNDI 53 Skilled by black art to mock the Gods profound In their abyss of under ground. Beware! Who hath entered hath no boast to make, And conscious Eden surelier breeds the snake. Be silent! O! for silence’ sake ! 8. That asks the impossible. Smite! Smite! Profaned adytum of pure light, Smite ! but I must sing on. Nay ! can the orison Of myriad fools provoke the Crowned-with- Night Hidden beyond sound and sight In the mystery of Ilis own high essence? Lo, Rose of all the gardens of the world, Did thy most sacred presence Not fill the Real, then this voice were whirled Away in the wind of its own folly, thrown Into forgotten places and unknown. So I sing on! Sister and wife, dear wife, Light of my love and lady of my life, Answer if thou canst from the unsullied place, Unveiling fur one star-wink thy bright face ! Did we leave then, once cognisant, Time for some Fear to implant His poison? Did we hesitate ? Leave but one little chance to Fate? For one swift second did we wait? There is no need to answer : God is God, A jealous God and evil ; with His rod He smiteth fair and foul, and with His sword Divideth tiniest atoms of intangible time, That men may know he is the Lord. Then, with that sharp division, Did He divide our wit sublime? Our knowledge bring to nought? We had no need of thought. We brought His malice in derision. So thine eternal petals shall enclose Me, O most wonderful lady of delight, Immaculate, indivisible circle of night, Inviolate, invulnerable Rose ! g. The sound of my own voice carries me on. I am as a ship whose anchors are all gone, Whose rudder is held by Love the indomi- table— Purposeful helmsman! Hell, Who should be fool enough to care2? Suppose Hel?s waters wash the memory of this rose Were his port high Out of my mind, what misery matters then? Or, if they leave it, all the woes of men Are as pale shadows in the glory of That passionate splendour of Love. 10. Ay! my own voice, my own thoughts. These, then, must be The mutiny of some worm’s misery, Some chained despair knotted into my flesh, Some chance companion, some soul damned afresh Since my redemption, that is vocal at all, For Lam wrapt away from light and call In the sweet heart of the red rose. My spirit only knows This woman and know more? I, I am concentrate In the unshakable state Of constant rapture. Who should pour lis ravings in the air for winds to whirl, Far from the central pearl Of all the diadem of the universe? Let God take pen, rehearse Dull nursery tales ; then, not before, O rose, Red rose ! shall the beloved of thee, Infinite rose ! pen puerile poetry That turns in writing to vile prose. no more; who would 11. Were this the quintessential plume of Keats And Shelley and Swinburne and Verlaine, Could I outsoar them, all their lyric feats, Excel their utterance vain With one convincing rapture, beat them hollow As an ass’s skin ; wert thou, Apollo, Mere slave to me, not Lord—thy fieriest flight And stateliest shaft of light