92 
AMBERGRIS 
All the concentred music that is I. 
O !  hear me not !  I die ; 
I am borne away in misery of dumb life 
That would in words flash forth the holiest heaven 
That to the immortal God of Gods is given, 
And, tongue-tied, stammers forth—my wife ! 
 
4.  I am dumb with rapture of thy loveliness. 
All metres match and mingle ;  all words tire ; 
All lights, all sounds, all perfumes, all gold stress 
Of the honey-palate, all soft strokes expire 
In abject agony of broken sense 
To hymn the emotion tense 
Of somewhat higher—O !  how highest !—than all 
Their mystery :  fall, O fall, 
Ye unavailing eagle-flights of song ! 
O wife !  these do thee wrong. 
 
5.  Thou knowest how I was blind ; 
How for mere minutes thy pure presence 
Was nought ;  was ill defined ; 
A smudge across the mind, 
Drivelling in its brutal essence, 
Hog-wallowing in poetry, 
Incapable of thee. 
 
6.  Ah !  when the minutes grew to hours, 
And yet the beast, the fool, saw flowers 
And loved them, watched the moon rise, took delight 
In perfumes of the summer night, 
Caught in the glamour of the sun, 
Thought all the woe well won. 
How hours were days, and all the misery 
Abode, all mine :  O thou !  didst thou regret ? 
Was thou asleep as I ? 
Didst thou not love me yet ? 
For, know !  the moon is not the moon until 
She hath the knowledge to fulfil 
Her music, till she know herself the moon.