XLIII
THE NIGHT OBSCURE OF THE SOUL
When the Soul travails in her Night Obscure,
The nadir of her desperate defeat,
What heavenly dream shall help her to endure,
What flaming Wisdom be her Paraclete?
No curious Metaphysic can withhold
The heart from that mandragora she craves:—
Unreasonable, old as Earth is old,
The blind ecstatic miracle that saves.
Far off the pagan trumpeters of Pride
Call to the blood.—Love moans.—Some fiery fashion
Of rapture like the anguish of the bride
Leaps from the dark perfection of the Passion,
Crying: "O beautiful God, still torture me,
For if thou slay me, I will trust in Thee."
XLIV
THE CONQUEST OF IMMORTALITY
Ah! not in earthy dull durations I
Mine heirdom of Eternity implore.
Give one star-drunken moment ere I die,
Then doom me dreadless to the implacable Door.
That mystical Assumption shall disown
Time's haughtiest lieges. Grey mortality
Will disenchant the jewel-breded throne
Of Cassiopeia when more burningly
My deed exults with angels. I will borrow
From continuity no larva-lease:
Through sworded crises and great compts of sorrow
I seek the splendour that shall never cease
Though Death coin from my soul through endless years
Dim drachmas of his infinite arrears.
XLV
WOMEN OF TANAGRA