Collected Works (Vol. I)

THE FAREWELL OF PARACELSUS TO APRILE 39 ‘©Within my heart one slow sweet whisper stole Consuming and destroying all my soul Lest, if the pure cold mind should conquer it, TI might not know, although it still were sweet. ‘‘My pure desires arose and cast out love That flew away, most like a wounded dove, Only the drops were mine its bosom bled. Now the last time it hovers by my head: ‘* Now the last time I turn and go to her.”’ The violet smiled at him; his fingers fair Plucked the sweet blossom to his breast; his eyes. Mused like delight, and like desire were wise. There was a maiden like the sun, to whom [lis footsteps turned amid the myriad bloom Of flowers and leafy pathways of the wood, Where, in a dell of roses white, she stood. He came to her and looked so dear and deep Into her eyes, the wells and woods of sleep, And took the violet from his breast, and stood A glad young god within the golden wood. He kissed the blossom, and bent very low, And put it to her lips-—and even so His lips were set on them ; the flower sighed | For deep delight, and in the long kiss died. Years fled and faded, yet a flower was seen Gracious and comely in its nest of green, And tender hands would water it and say: ‘*( happy sister, she that went away ! “For she brought back my lover to my heart, And knew her work was perfect, and her part Most perfect when she died between the breath, And in the bridal kisses kissed to death.” So grew the newer blossom and was glad: Sweet little hopes her faint fair forehead had That one day such a death might crown her days. And so God too was glad, the story says. THE FAREWELL OF PARACELSUS TO APRILE.! THou Sun, whose swift desire to-day is dull, And all ye hosts of heaven, whose lips are mute, And trees and flowers and oceans beautiful Among whose murmurs I have struck this lute With joy supreme or agony acute, And love transcending everything alway, Pity me, pity, since the poisonous root Of parting strikes the beauty of the_day ; We meet for the last time beside the ocean gray. Soul of my soul, we never can forget— But, is our parting burnt across the skies ? Is the last word said? Must our lips be set Not to new song, but to the bitter sighs As of a child whose flower-garden dies, Who knows no hope of some enduring spring P Is the last song made, whose faint melodies Brushed the pale air with an archangel’s wing? Is Hope divorced, our queen? Is Love dis- crowned, our King? Far o’er the Ocean sets a flery star And meteors cross the angry horizon ; A comet blazes, reddening the bar Of silver water where the moonlight shone, And, as I stand upon the cliff like one 1 Paracelsus. I am he that aspired to KNOW: and thou ? Aprile, [would LOVE infinitely, and be loved. BROWNING, Paracelsus. But Crowley here opposes Browning.