XXXII
Tue note of the silence is changed; the quarrel is over
That rather endeared than estranged: lover to lover
Flows in the infinite river of knowledge and peace:
Not a ripple or eddy or quiver: the monitors cease
That were eager to warn, to awaken: a sleep is opposed,
And the leaves of the rose wind-shaken are curled and closed ;
Gone down in the glare of the sun; and the twilight perfumes
Steal soft in the wake of the One that abides in the glooms.
Walking he is, and slowly; thoughtful he seems,
Pure and happy and holy; as one would who dreams
In the day-time of deep delights no kin to the day,
But a flower new-born of the night’s in Hecate’s way.
Love is his name, and he bears the ill quiver no more.
He has aged as we all, and despairs; but the lady who bore
Him, Eros, to ruin the ages, has softened at heart;
He is tamed by the art of the sages, the magical art.
No longer he burns and blisters, consumes and corrodes;
He hath Muses nine for sisters; the holy abodes
Of the maiden are open to him, for his wrath is grown still ;
His eyes with weeping are dim; he hath changed his will.
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