Danced by the mystic hours.
“But every flower was lifted on a thorn,
And every thorn shot upright from its sands
To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn
With cruel clapping hands.
“She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength
Was strung up until daybreak of delight;
She measured measureless sorrow toward its length,
And breadth, and depth, and height.
“Then marked I how a chain sustained her form,