XXIV
Now your grave eyes are filled with tears;
Your hands are trembling in my own ;
The slow voice falls upon my ears,
An undulating monotone.
Your lips are gathered up to mine;
Your bosom heaves with fearful breath ;
Your scent is keen as floral wine,
Inviting me, and love, to death.
You, whom I kept, a sacred shrine,
Will fling the portals to the day ;
Where shone the moon the sun shall shine,
Silver in scarlet melt away.
There is yet a pang: they give me this
Who can; and you who could have failed?
Is it too late to extend the kiss?
Too late the goddess be unveiled?
O but the generous flower that gives
Her kisses to the violent sun,
Yet none the less in ardour lives
An hour, and then her day is done.
54