XIV
DREAM-GHOSTS
White house of night, too much the ghosts come through
Your crazy doors, to vex and startle me,
Touching with curious fingers cold as dew
Kissing with unloved kisses fierily
That dwell, slow fever, through my veins all day,
And fill my senses as the dead their graves.
They are builded in my castles and bridges? Yea,
Not therefore must my dreams become their slaves.
If once we passed some kindness, must they still
Sway me with weird returns and dim disgust?—
Though even in sleep the absolute bright Will
Would exorcise them, saying, "These are but dust,"
They show sad symbols, that, when I awaken,
I never can deny I have partaken.
XV
MEMORIA SUBMERSA
Can souls forget what bodies keep the while?
Is this among their dark antinomies?
The spiritual joy is volatile:
The flesh is faithful to her memories.
This living silk, this inarticulate
Remembrance of the nerves enwinds us fast:
Delicate cells, obscure and obstinate,
Secrete the bitter essence of the Past.
Ah! Was the fading web of rose and white
All macerated by the kisses of old
As rare French queens with perfume? (So, by night,
They lived like lilies mid their cloth-of-gold.)
Within the sense, howe'er the soul abjure,
Like flavours and fumes these ancient things endure.
XVI
A PORTRAIT BY VENEZIANO