II8 
ANIMA LUNAE 
 
Drew back the veil of sleep ; 
But strange :  the king turned idly, sought to press 
The bosom where love lately burnt supreme, 
And found no ivory deep. 
He turned and sought out life ; and nothing lived : 
Death, and nought died.  The king’s brow fell.  Sore grieved 
He rose, not knowing :  and before his will 
Swan’s throat, dove’s eyes, moon’s breast, and woman’s 
mouth, 
And form desirable 
Of all the clustered love drew back :  grew still 
“ O turn, my lover, turn thee to the South ! ” 
The girl’s warm song of the Siesta’s hour. 
Heedless of all that flower, 
Eager to feel the strong brown fingers close 
On the unshrinking rose 
And pluck it to his breast to perish there, 
With neither thought nor care 
Nor knowledge he went forth :  none stayed, none dare 
Proffer a pavid prayer. 
 
There was a pavement bright with emerald 
Glittering on malachite 
Clear to the Sun :  low battlements enwalled 
With gold the ground enthralled, 
Sheer to the sight 
Of sun and city :  thither in his trance 
The king’s slow steps advance. 
There stood he, and with eyes unfolded far 
(Clouds shadowing a star