The Winged Beetle

140 ROSA DECIDUA Now call me callous ! Pass me, prigs, and sneer At the base soul that could not bear its cross ! I say that infinite loss is infinite loss, That tears are trivial, tears are happiness, That this blind ache is God’s last punishment For love ; that all things in that one thing shent Are damned, that had I loved her less I could have prated in some honeyed strain. Taking a subtle pleasure in my pain. It is my bulk, the mass of my intent, That makes the ruin abject. I had sung Some partial earthquake ; here the universe Crashes with one great curse, Whelming the singer and the song. My tongue Is palsied ; only this chaotic clash Of curses echoes the dire crash. And after all the roar, there steals a strain At last of tuneless, infinite pain ; And all my being is one throb Of anguish, and one inarticulate sob Catches my throat. All these vain voices die, And all these thunders venomously hurled Stop. My head strikes the floor ; one cry, the old cry, Strikes at the sky in its exquisite agony : Rose ! Rose o’ th’ World !