lls,
We should be sisters of incense evermore
Like the crowned Lover of the Canticles.
Through the great honeycomb of my soul should steep
The secrets of the lilies, and her fire
Be ambergris, her agate flagons keep
The sorcelled hydromel which brings Desire
To that mysterious Dark where still prevails
The dream of roses and of nightingales.

XLIII

THE NIGHT OBSCURE OF THE SOUL

When the Soul travails in her Night Obscure,
The nadir of her desperate defeat,
What heavenly dream shall help her to endure,
What flaming Wisdom be her Paraclete?
No curious Metaphysic can withhold
The heart from that mandragora she craves:--
Unreasonable, old as Earth is old,
The blind ecstatic miracle that saves.
Far off the pagan trumpeters of Pride
Call to the blood.--Love moans.--Some fiery fashion
Of rapture like the anguish of the bride
Leaps from the dark perfection of the Passion,
Crying: "O beautiful God, still torture me,
For if thou slay me, I will trust in Thee."

XLIV

THE CONQUEST OF IMMORTALITY

Ah! not in earthy dull durations I
Mine heirdom of Eternity implore.
Give one star-drunken moment ere I die,
Then doom me dreadless to the implacable Door.
That mystical Assumption shall disown
Time's haughtiest lieges. Grey mortality
Will disenchant the jewel-breded throne
Of Cassiopeia when more burningly
My deed exults with angels. I will borrow
From continuity no larva-lease:
Through sworded crises and great compts of sorrow
I seek the splendour that shall never cease
Though Death coin from my soul through endless years
Dim drachmas of his infinite arrears.

XLV

WOMEN OF TANAGRA

Have these forgotten they are toys of Death
That in his sad aphelions of desire
They still regret the joy that perisheth,
And Spring's great reveries that exceed and tire,--
Faintly accusing Love's unmercied yokes
With almost wanton grace, the craft and art
Of precious frailty that with subtle strokes
Of sweetness finds the core of Passion's heart?
They carry fans and mirrors, or make fast
The mournful flute-like cadence of a veil.
Slight fans that winnowed souls, mirrors that glassed
The burning brooding wings which never fail!
Still in such lovely vanities to-day
The gods their secret wisdom hide away.

XLVI

THE INVENTORY

TO HER FRIEND

I love all sumptuous things and delicate,