Have these forgotten they are toys of Death
That in his sad aphelions of desire
They still regret the joy that perisheth,
And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,—
Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes
With almost wanton grace, the craft and art
Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes
Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart?
They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast
The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil.
Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed
The burning brooding wings which never fail!
Still in such lovely vanities to-day
The gods their secret wisdom hide away.
XLVI
THE INVENTORY
TO HER FRIEND
I love all sumptuous things and delicate,
Ethereal matters richly paradised
In Art's proud certitudes. I love the great
Greek vases, carven ivory, subtilised
Arras of roses, Magians dyed on glass,
Graven chalcedony and sardonyx,
Nocturnes that through the nerves like fever pass,
Arthurian kings, Love on the crucifix,
All sweet mysterious verse, the Byzantine
Gold chambers of Crivelli, marble that flowers
In shy adoring angels, patterned vine
And lotos, and emblazoned Books of Hours,—
And you, whose smiling eyes to ironies
Reduce both me and mine idolatries.
XLVII
COMFORT
I