The Mother’s Tragedy

12 THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY Majestic fires! Before the throne of God Deep silence waits the lifting of the rod, The moving nod. Silence, reflected thence, still and intense, into the firmament; Such silence as befits the event. Re-enter CORA. CORA. This is the hour, O child whom I have loved With love more tender than a mother’s love, Being thy friend; this moment have I sought, Awaiting always the propitious time, To speak some purpose grown more definite Than is our wont. We spent the honey days In gentle intercourse: high souls have stood Watching us drink from their crystalline stream Meandering through language: mighty kings Have listened as we read of their dead pomp; Fair women blushed as their imagined shapes Flitted before us in the tender page. We too have followed every curve and line In fairy fancies on our canvas drawn Of stately people, and the changing rhyme Of virgins dancing before Artemis; In all the pleasures that delight the mind, Invigorate the soul, lend favour to The body of the youth—for I am old