The Soul of Osiris

THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 79 Once more it seeks in memory for reverence, not regret, And it loves you still, my sisters ! as God shall not forget. It is ill to blaspheme the silence with a wicked whispered thought— How still they were, those nights ! when this web of things was wrought ! How still, how terrible ! O my dolorous tender brides, As I lay and dreamt in the dark by your shameful beautiful sides ! And now you are mine no more, I know ; but I cannot bear The curse—that another is drunk on the life that stirs your hair : Every hair was alive with a spark of midnight’s delicate flame, Or a glow of the nether fire, or an old illustrious shame. Many, so many, were ye to make one Womanhood— A thing of fire and flesh, of wine and glory and blood, In whose rose-orient texture a golden light is spun, A gossamer scheme of love, as water in the sun Flecked by wonderful bars, most delicately crossed, Worked into wedded beauties, flickering, never lost— That is the spirit of love, incarnate in your flesh ! Your bodies had wearied me, but your passion was ever fresh : You were many indeed, but your love for me was one. Then I perceived the stars to reflect a single sun— Not burning suns themselves, in furious regular race, But mirrors of midnight, lit to remind us of His face.