Strike the young glory of his manhood down,
Dead, like a dog, dead in a drunken brawl,
Dead for a phial of paint, a taffeta gown?
What if his blood were hot? High over all
He heard, as in his song the world still hears,
Those angels on the burning heavenly wall
Who chant the thunder-music of the spheres.
Yet—through the glory of his own young dream
Here did he meet that face, wet with strange tears,
Andromeda, with piteous face astream,
Hailing him, Perseus. In her treacherous eyes
As in dark pools the mirrored stars will gleam,
Here did he see his own eternal skies;
And here—she laughed, nor found the dream amiss;
But bade him pluck and eat—in Paradise.
Here did she hold him, broken up with bliss,
Here, like a supple snake, around him coiled,
Here did she pluck his heart out with a kiss,
Here were the wings clipped and the glory soiled,
Here adders coupled in the pure white shrine,
Here was the Wine spilt, and the Shew-bread spoiled.
Black was that feast, though he who poured the Wine
Dreamed that he poured it in high sacrament.
Deep in her eyes he saw his own eyes shine,
Beheld Love's god-head and was well content.
Subtly her hand struck the pure silver note,
The throbbing chord of passion that God meant
To swell the bliss of heaven. Round his young throat
She wound her swarthy tresses; then, with eyes
Half mad to see their power, half mad to gloat,