The Star and the Garter

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