X
THE MIRROR-CASES
II
O treasonable heart and perverse words,
Ye darken beauty with your plots of pain!
What languors beat through me like muted chords?
I know indeed that suffering shall profane
These lovers, sweet as viols or violet-spices.
Strangely must end their dreamy chess-playing,
Strange wounds amaze their broidered Paradises,
And stain the falconry and garlanding.
Their bodies must be broken as on wheels,
Their souls be carded with implacable shame,—
Molten like wax, be crushed beneath the seals
Of sin and penance. Yet, with wings aflame,
Love, Love more lovely, like a triumpher,
Shall break his malefactor's sepulchre.
XI
THE PASSION-FLOWER
The passion-flower bears in her violet Cup
The senses of her bridal, and they seem
Symbols of sacred pangs,—Love lifted up
To expiate the beauty of his dream.
Come and adore, ye crafty imagers,
This piece of ivory and amethyst.
Let Music, Colour, decorated Verse,
Meditate, each like some sad lutanist,
This Paten, and the marvels it uncovers,
Identities of joy and anguish. Rod,
Nails, bitter garlands, all ecstatic lovers
Blindly repeat the dolours of a God.
Subdue this mournful matter unto Art,
Ivory, amethyst, serene of heart.