Collected Works (Vol. II)

THE FORTY-SEVENTH DAY 83 But born of strings intangible, of spheres Shaken of love, a mightier music’s might Frailer to sound than dewfall is to sight ! Wake, O sweet soul incorporate of tears! Or else dream on and let no tears begem Love’s crown of thorns, ensanguine diadem, But let pale kisses blossom, starry shrine Of lips most deathlike, that endure divine _ Past sleep’s, or parting’s, or death’s spoil of them In the pomegranate walks of Proser- pine !! THE FORTY-FIFTH DAY. ‘Peace, fool! I have not done.” Troilus and Cressida, THovu knowest, O Love, how tired our bodies grow Forgotten in quick converse, love to love ; How the flame flickers of the ghost above, The spirit’s kiss; the sleepless to-and-fro Movement of love’s desire too strong to know Or care for that it takes its substance of— As if life’s burden were not drear enough Or death’s deliverance not so far and slow. Our bodies almost perish, with one thought Crowned and completed, consecrate and shrined : A perfect temple of fine amber wrought, Whose shrine’s the body and whose lamp the mind. The heart is priest and sacrifice in one ; And, where it sinned or sorrowed, shall atone. 1 Proserpine, ravished by Hades, was sought by her mother Demeter. But as she had eaten (a pomegranate) in Hell, Hades retained a claim upon her for half the year. See Forty- eighth Day. THE FORTY-SIXTH DAY. “ Because I love you, I will let you‘know : cee ee my wife . . . like a fountain with a hundred spouts Did run pure blood.” Julius Cesar. WAS it a sense of uttermost relief . We gladdened with, and bade our fear forget ? Was there no subtle fragrance of regret? For me, at least, a pang of perfect grief? Had it been otherwise, I would be chief And drive her to abandon all things yet In mere despair, that by-and-by shall get Young comfort in a babe beyond belief. God would not curse and bless us to such measure; We were not sad enough nor glad enough! A little time of misery and pleasure ;. Pain strangling half the ecstasy thereof— Such all our gain, who gained the utmost treasure, Gift of the wizard wand and cup of love. THE FORTY-SEVENTH DAY. ‘*Thou ever young, fresh, lov’d, and delicate wooer.”’ Timon of Athens. THE little money that we had to spend Was gone long since: the little more I stole Followed: I pledged then all things but my soul (On which the usurers refused to lend) To raise our utmost, till a ship should send Much plenty from the Sunset : to control And stop her yet a little while, the whole I meant to waste before the week should end,