Mere night! The unconsenting Soul stands by, A moaning protestant. "Ah, not for this, And not for this, through rose and thorn was I Drawn to surrender and the bridal-kiss. Annunciations lit with jewelled wings Of sudden angels mid the lilies tall, Proud prothalamia chaunting enraptured things,-- O sumptuous fables, why so prodigal Of masque and music, of dreams like foam-white swans On lakes of hyacinthus? Must Love seek Great allies, Beauty sound her arrière-bans That all her splendours betray us to this bleak Simplicity whereto blind satyrs run?"-- The irony seems old, old as the sun.
Rondels of old French ivory to-day (Poor perished beauty's deathless mirror-cases!) Reveal to me the delicate amorous play Of reed-like flowering folk with pointed faces. Lovers ride hawking; over chess delight; The Castle of Ladies renders up its keys, Its roses all being flung; a gracious knight Kneels to his garlander mid orchard-trees. Passionate pilgrims, do ye keep so fast Your dream of miracles and heights? Ah, shent And sore-bewildered shall ye couch at last In bitter beds of disillusionment. In the Black Orchard the foul raven grieves White Love, on some Montfauçon of the thieves.
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.
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.