To watch the gentle foresters of spring
Crush dainty violets in their dalliance,
Laughing in chorus with the birds
; and then
(Coming
at harvest time upon my tracks)
See these
same lovers in the golden sheaves
Under the sun.
The same,
the fuller fruit.
Say you ?
But somehow, nearer to the end.
Lost the old sense of mystery, and lost
That curious reverence in sacrilege
With Wonder—the child's faculty !
Less joy,
Less laughter, yes ! that symptom
I approve
;
Yet is that subtle fading-out of smiles
Rather
the coming of a dull despair.
And not at all that keen despair, that sharp
Maddening
pain that should torment a man
With deadliest delight,
the self-same
hour
That he unveils
the Isis of desire.
These litde lovers strip their maidens bare,
And find them—naked !
Poor and pitiful
!
Look at our love instead !
I raised Thy veil,
Nay, tore Thy vesture from Thee,
and behold !
Then only did I see what mystery,
What ninefold forest,
shade
impassible,
Surrounds Thy heart,
as with a core of light
Shut in the mystery of a dead world.
Thou formless sense of gloom and terror !
Thou
Upas,
new
tree of life—by sinister
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