Ethereal matters richly paradised
In Art's proud certitudes. I love the great
Greek vases, carven ivory, subtilised
Arras of roses, Magians dyed on glass,
Graven chalcedony and sardonyx,
Nocturnes that through the nerves like fever pass,
Arthurian kings, Love on the crucifix,
All sweet mysterious verse, the Byzantine
Gold chambers of Crivelli, marble that flowers
In shy adoring angels, patterned vine
And lotos, and emblazoned Books of Hours,--
_And you, whose smiling eyes to ironies
Reduce both me and mine idolatries_.

XLVII

COMFORT

I

I sang the Dolorous Stroke of Disillusion,
Yet never have I broken faith with Joy:
Flame-broidered trance and starless cold confusion
Of slain and flying dreams shall not destroy
The radiant oath to that bright Suzerain
Whose lightning-lovely succour ambushed lies
Even in the most impossible strait of pain.
Mystical paradox, divine surprise
Of rapture! By intensities alone
Their spirits enter in to exultation
For whom the burning winds of their sad zone
Bear down the Dove of the Imagination,
Who suffer superbly, _in scarlet violetted,
As the Sacred Kings of the Lillie_ mourned their dead.*

* See Favine's "Book of Chivalry."

XLVIII

COMFORT

II

And that is marvellous comfort;--and yet poor
To what mere woman-mystery can give,
The strange simplicity that will endure
The pangs of death, most resolute to live.
This God of riddles that shaped a thing so frail
For his worst torment hid mysterious powers
Within her breast who can like lilies prevail
Through rains of doom that conquer brassy towers.
Her heart lies broken; when some trivial chord
Of sweetness chimes reveille through the sense,--
A rose, a song, a smile, a courtly word.
She wakes, and sighs, and softly passes thence
Back to the masquers, though her soul's veiled Pyx
Enclose the solemn fruits of the Crucifix.

XLIX

THE CHANGE

I spun my soul about with soft cocoons
Of pleasure golden-pale. For me, for me
Were precious things put forth by crescent moons,
Of pearl and milky jade and ivory.
Grave players on ethereal harpsichords,
My senses wrought a music exquisite
As patterned roses, all my life's accords
Were richer, ghostlier than peacocks white.
So in my paradise reserved and fair
I grew as dreamlike as the Elysian dead;
Until a passing Wizard smote me ther