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.