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,