Sometimes we tire. Upon the sods
We set the great enamels by,
Wherein the occult odours lie,
And play with children on the sods.
Yet soon we take, O jealous gods,
Those gracious caskets once again,
Storied with oracles of pain,
That keep the spices for the gods.
We carry spices to the gods.
Like sumptuous cold chalcedony
Our weary breasts and hands must be
To carry spices to the gods.
I
THE PRELUDE
Thou sayest, "O pure Palace of my Pleasures,
O Doors of Ivory, let the King come in.
With silver lamps before him, and with measures
Of low lute-music let him come. Begin,
Ye suppliant lilies and ye frail white roses,
Imploring sweetnesses of hands and eyes,
To let Love through to the most secret closes
Of all his flowery Court of Paradise." . . .
Sunder the jealous gates. Thine ivory Castle
Is hung with scarlet, is the Convent of Pain.
With purple and with spice indeed the Vassal
Receives her King whom dark desires constrain.
Rejoice, rejoice!—But far from flutes and dances
The cloistered Soul lies frozen in her trances.
II
PERILS