The Mother’s Tragedy

96 THE REAPER How by the part man learns to love the whole, How each man’s mistress calls herself a wife. I tired not of the tigress limbs and lips— Only, my soul was weary of itself, Being so impotent, who only sips The dewdrops from the flower-cup of an elf, Not comprehending the mysterious sea Of black swift waters that can drink it up, Not trusting life to its own ecstasy, Not mixing poison with the loving-cup. I, maker of mad rhymes, the reaper she! We lingered but a day upon the lawn. O Thou, the other Reaper! come to me! Thy dark embraces have a germ of Dawn!