Collected Works (Vol. I)

THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY 195 These be the furies, and the harpies these? That discontent should sum the happiest sky ? That of all boons man lacks the greatest —rest ? Nay! But the pivinise of the centuries, The certain pledge of immortality, Child-cry of Man at the eternal Breast. SYNTHESIS. WHEN I think of the hundreds of women I have loved from time to time, White throats and living bosoms where a kiss might creep or climb, Smooth eyes and trembling fingers, faint lips or murderous hair, All tunes of love’s own music, most various and rare ; When I look back on life, as a mariner on the deep Sees, tranced, the white wake foaming, fancies the nereids weep ; As, on @ mountain summit in the thunders and the snow, I look to the shimmering valley and weep: I loved you so! For a moment cease the winds of God upon the reverent head ; I lose the life of the mountain, and my soul is with the dead ; Yet am I not unaware of the splendour of the height, Yet am I lapped in the glory of the Sun of Life and Light :— Even so my heart looks out from the harbour of God’s breast, Out from the shining stars where it entered into rest— 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 mid- night’s delicate flame, ; Or a glow of the nether fire, or au 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. Thus I beheld the truth: ye are stars that give me light ; But I read you aright and learn I am walk- ing in the night. Then I turned mine eyes away to the Light that is above you: The answering splendid Dawn arose, and I did not love you. I saw the breaking light, and the clouds fled far away: It was the resurrection of the Golden Star of Day.