Then he looked, and from under her hair,
As from out of a mist grew her eyes,
And firmer her flesh was and fair
With the tint of the sorrowful skies,
Sun-widowed and veiled with thin air.
She seemed of each lovable thing
The soul that infused it with grace,
Her thoughts were the song the birds sing,
The glory of flowers was her face
And her smile was the smile of the spring.
Madly his blood with a bound
Leaped from his heart to his brain,
Till his thoughts and his senses were drowned
In the ache of a longing like pain,
In a hush that was louder than sound.
Then the god, bending his face,
“Loveliest,” said he, “if death
Mocked me with skulls in this place
And age and spent strength and spent breath,
Yet would I yield to thy grace;
“Yet would I circle thee, love,
With these arms which are smoking from wars,
Though the father up-gathered above,
In his anger, each ocean that roars,
Each boulder the cataracts shove,
“To hurl at me down from his throne,
Though the flood were as wide as the sky.
Yea, love, I am thine, all thine own,
Strong as the ocean to lie
Slave to thy bidding alone.”
Folds of her vesture fell soft,
As she lifted her eyes up to his:
“Nay, love, for a man speaketh oft
In words that are hot as a kiss,
But man’s love may be donned and be doft.”
“Love would have life for its field—
Love would have death for its goal;
And the passion of war must yield
To the passion of love in the soul,
And the eyes that Love kisses are sealed.”
“Wouldst thou love if the scorn of the world
Covered thy head with its briars;
When, soft as an infant curled
In its cradle, thou, chained with desires,
Lay helpless when flags were unfurled?”
Fiercely the god’s anger broke,
Fired with the flames in his blood:
“Who careth what words may be spoke?
For the feet of this love is a flood,
And its finger the weight of a yoke.
“I bow me, sweet, under its power,
I, who have stooped to none;
I bring thee my strength for a dower,
And deeds like the path of the sun;
I am thine for an age or an hour.”