Clouds Without Water

XII I think the hurt is healed, for (by the law That forms our being) you must suffer as I, Hunger as I, rejoice as I, withdraw Into the same far transcendental sky Of this initiated rapture. Hurt Of shame for me is past, beholding Gods Only a little part of me, and dirt Such as men fling and women paste, no odds. Moreover, by the subtle and austere Vintage we drain, albeit we drain the lees, There is no headache for the morning drear, No fluctuant in our tideless ecstasies — Whereby, o maiden o’ mine, the runic rime Tells me we have ree’d the riddle of old Time. XIII Never, o never shall I call you bride! Never, o never shall I draw you down Unto my kisses by the dim bedside Bathing my body in the choral crown, Your comet hair! Nor smooth our shimmering skins Each to the other and mount the sacred stair Even from the lesser to the greater sins Up to the throne where sits the royal and rare Vision of Pan. O never shall I raise This oriflamme, and lead the hope forlorn Up to the ruining bloody breach, to daze Death's self with pangs too blissful to be borne. No! dear my maid. A maiden as you be You may be all your lily life, for me.