The Winged Beetle

70 TELEPATHY To some black cavern of the vast On some demonic pinion. And here we lie—discrowned at last— A monarch grown a minion. Yea ; we are come from the bright God To some most desolate abode. Or is it crowned, thrice crowned, we are ? Crowned with long thorns sharp-gleaming, So that bright blood jets out afar From starry brains a-streaming ? Yea ! in our night there shines a star Beyond our dearest dreaming. Yea ; there is born a fearful light Proceeding from the Infinite. However that may be, ’tis clear What duty bids endeavour : To find you out in London, dear,— A ‘ now ’ is worth a ‘ never ’ !— To make to-day a heaven of cheer, And make to-day ‘ for ever ’ ! Yea ; though we know how springs run dry, We’ll trust our future, you and I. Ah, madman ! was there ever yet A love that lived a lustre