Songs of the Spirit

She guessed it woven of the spider’s thread, And coloured like the river’s changing bed Where polished pebbles shine ; she guessed it frail And perfect, with pure wings, like silver pale. So there, behind the leaves and stems, her lids Grew deep with veins of love, and Bassarids Racing the dim woods through, beheld her face, Whispered together, and desired the place. The grey was blushing in the Eastern sky When there drew near a child of poesy With full lips very tender, and grave eyes Where deep thoughts dwelt in some delicious wise. He looked upon the lilies, and a tear Dropped on their blossom ; but a little fear Came to the bosom of the violet Lest he see not, or see her, and forget. But he did see her, and drew close, and said : “ O perfect passion of my soul, O dead Living desire, O sweet unspoken sin, Leave thou the lilies ; they are not thy kin. 38