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…shines the waves of harmony, Lapped in the sun of day; the tides Of wonder flow, the shore subsides ; And over all the horizon Glows the last glimmer of the sun. Ah! when the moon arises, she Shall look on nothing but the sea. 16
…e, and loose the tongue Tinkles delicate things, faint thoughts of a futile past— We are past on eagle wings, and the silence is here at last. The last low wail of the lyre, be it soft with a tear 76
IV A Foot indeed! For why complain, Now the last five-barred gate is ope, Held by a little boy? I hope The hour is handy to explain The final secret. Have I any? Yes! the small boy shall have a penny! Now you are angry? Be content! Not fee the assistant accident That shows our quarry—love—at bay? My silver-throated queen, away! Huntress of heaven, by my side, As moon by meteor, rushing, ride! Among the stars, ride on! ride on! (Then, maybe, bid the boy begone! ) 12
…ay catch your France, ‘My crow grow germane to your cluck. See art: see truth as I who see, (Am wellnigh fallen in the fight!) ‘Then the last lie, duality, ‘May break before the victor sight. ‘Then, and then only, That, Sweet hours Of trivial passion deep as death, ‘Ye are past: I face the solemn powers Of sex and soul, of brain and breath. For you I lift the veil: discover ‘The actual, for I was your lover. What should such word imply? I showed
…t there be music, and Rome burn ‘Then you may climb to be aware How well you serve my idle turn, Yet to yourself avail. There too Lies a last doubtful chance for you. Behold who dare! (Ay, you are fain!) Purblind with prejudice? No vision, Palsied with passion? Sight in vain. ‘Stupid with sense of self? Division, Picture, not model? Then you win, T painted soul, who saw your skin -— Be soul! That saves you. If you fail, ‘Why, then, you fail! Enough of this—
…true fife-note, the tightening of the tension of the fighting hour, “fein strange that anybody with an ear for poetry could tolerate the last line.” «Aero worshipper.” vce W, B. Yeats and the author of ‘The Soul of Osiris ‘rAcloted mas of wifal emotional symbols.” wtA Wind of middle-class Swinbume at second hand . . . a windbag foaming at he ‘eouh the morbid unpleasantness of Mr Crowley's taste... a drama of incest, hey and violently treated. Some ofthe shorter poems are worse.” “WA sinister rival to the mtoscope.” “Yale a morbidly exaggerated …
…r quailed, Intimate with the naked probe ? I know the husks to strip ; name, form, Sensation, then perception, stress Of nature thither; last, the swarm Of honey-bees called consciousness. These change and shape a myriad shapes. Diverse are these, not one at all. What gain I if my scalpel scrapes, Turning before some final wall Of soul? Not so, nothing is there. The qualities are all : for this I stop as I have stopped; intrude H 57