The Mother’s Tragedy

THE BRIDEGROOM 71 Such songs were hers. What song is hers to-night When she is smitten in her bridal bed, Because I would not trust the God that gave Her smooth virginity to godlier might, My glory? There she lies divine and dead Because I would not trust the sullen wave Of time; and chose this way—her grave. I had not thought the poison left her so— Smiling, enticing, exquisite. I meant Rather that beauty to destroy, to leave No subtle languors on that breast of snow, No curves by God’s caressing finger bent, To bid me think of her: I would deceive My memory—now I can but grieve. Perhaps our happiness, despite of all, Would have grown comelier and never tired; Perhaps the pitiful pale face had been Alway my true wife’s; let me not recall Her first shy glance! This woman I desired, And sealed my own for ever by this keen Death that crowns her Death’s queen. Death’s and not mine: I was a fool to kiss Her dead lips—aye, her living lips for that ! I cannot bid her rise and live again. I would not. Nay, I know not; for is this My triumph or my ruin, satiate Of death, insatiate alway of pain ? What have I done? In vain, in vain!