THE EQUINOX
Of the burning and pitiless day, and the pitiless light,—
Thee only beside me, above me the mystical night,
No dream so created in darkness was ever more fair.
For then was thy touch as the light of a life-giving fire,
Which kindles, and scorches, and burns, with unsated desire,
Thy breath the warm essence of myrtle, the fragrance of pine,
The languorous smoke of a temple obscene yet divine,
Which gladdens the soul of a god in his passionate ire.
So silent those nights, I could fancy the uttermost deep
Engulfed us for ever,—for ever in silence to keep
The tale of our wooing: till sweetly the murderous hours
Had lulled us to rest; and the magical poison of flowers
Had stolen our brains, and our eyelids were heavy with sleep.
Ah love! They are banished, yet not so the strength of the
spell
Which holds both our beings in bondage, a bondage so fell
That even the angels above cannot alter its power;
It lives in the memory yet of one passionate hour,
When from the dark bosom of Hell sprang a fair felon flower.
ETHEL ARCHER.
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