We are what your lips have made us, Empty, and bitterly old; Our faith has lied, Oh, barren bride, And the fires of the world are cold.
How shall the present verify the past? Like flames we strove, still onward, upward rising, Spurning the singing continents--at last, Wrecked on this fatal day of our devising.
Nurtured by lunar rainbows, chill and sweet, Our fancy was a gossamer of beauty; Now like a web it drags about our feet, Named with the symbols drear of fact and duty.
We who were heirs to Egypt, India’s child, Suckled by Greece, and cradled by Cathay, How tacitly we waive this breeding wild, Deny our parents in our deeds to-day.
Let us awake--obedient to our dreams, Let us embrace huge issues, comprehending The scheme entire--Great Beauty’s birth, which seems The glorious urge for life, unchecked, unending.
The air is heavy with a mist of spice, Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue, Have I not paid, have I not paid the price? How shall these tempters torture me anew?
I close my eyes and dream the incense drifts Over the monstrance, and the acolyte Swings the gold censer. Then the vision lifts: I know the poisonous joys I have to fight.
Day with its flowers and yellow butterflies, Holds for my heart no pain, the wind is free That blows upon my garden from far skies, Yet may I hold it in white chastity.
But night!--and the still air!--Ah, God above, Have I the strength to wage thy war anew? Blot out my senses or I die for love,-- Vervain and agrimony, clove and rue!
The orchard apples hung above, Golden and red and green. Her face beneath was ripe for love, Cat-eyed with sparks between.
Simples she came to gather there With hands of ivory; Gold fillets bound her golden hair; Her gown was cramosie.
She plucked the herbs with subtle grace, Derisive in her deed. Was there no Prince to read her face, No Prince with Beauty’s need?
Her hands with cassia buds were sweet: “Come, love,” her young heart cried, The Prince with delicate swift feet, Was even at her side!
Her tamed white leopard leaped in fear, Love beckons love so soon. They gathered no more simples there, The long late afternoon.
Beyond the hill the hearth fires burn, A hundred flags in air, But one which tossed but yesterday Is dead, one hearth is bare.