Collected Works (Vol. I)

120 MYSTERIES: LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC Its song. But now I turn to thee, whose eyes Blaze on me with such look as flesh and blood May never see and live; for so it burns Into the innest being of the spirit And stains its vital essence with a brand Of fire that shall not change; and shudder- ing I Gaze back, spirit to spirit, with the like Insatiable desire, that never quenched, Nor lessened by sublime satiety, But rather crescent, hotter with the flame Of its own burning, that consumes it not, Because it is the pure white flame of God. I shudder, holding thee to me ; thy gaze Is still on me; a thousand years have passed, And yet a thousand thousand ; years they are As men count years, and yet we stand and gaze With touching hands and lips immutable As mortals stand a moment;... The universe is One: One Soul, One Spirit, One Flame, One infinite God, One infinite Love. SONNET TO CLYTIE. CiyTit, beyond all praise, thou goodliest Of queens, thou royal woman, crowned with tears, That could not move the dull stars from their spheres To kiss thee. For the sun would fainer rest In the gold chambers of the glowing west Than answer thy love, thine, whose soul endears All souls but his, whose slow desire fears The fierce embraces of thine olive breast. O Queen, sun-lover, we are wed with thee In changeless love, in passion for a fire Whose lips bind all men in their bitter spell; A love whose first caress, hard won, would be The final dissolution of desire, A flame to shrivel us with fire of hell. A VALENTINE, ’08.! Now on the land the woods are green ; A wild bird’s note Shrills till the air trembles between His beak and throat. And up through blue and ‘gold and black The shivering sound Rushes ; no echo murmurs back From sky or ground. In the loud agony of song The moon is still; The wind drops down the shore along; Night hath her will. The bird becomes a dancing flame In leaf and bower. The forest trembles ; loves reclaim Their own still hour. The dawn is here, and on the sands Where sun first flames, I gather lilies from all lands Of sad sweet names. The Lesbian lily is of white Stained through with blood, Swayed with the stream, a wayward light Upon the flood. The Spartan lily is of blue, With green leaves fresh ; Apollo glints his crimson through The azure mesh. The English lily is of white, All white and clean ; There plays a tender flame of light Her flowers between. The English lily is a bloom Too cold and sweet ; One might say—in the twilight gloom A maiden’s feet. * Nothing more; be it well remembered !—