The Equinox (Volume I, Number X)

THE EQUINOX The grave of desolation ; I am weary Of all things: let me dream my life away. The breast of Fate is pregnant with Despair, Got on her by the piercing shaft of Time. Oh! Unborn child of Fate and Time, I am weary Of them that gave thee birth. Shall I love thee? O darling! Wilt thou come to me in the silence, Saying: “I bear the mystery of Time, And the secret of Fate?” I know not yet, but surely Thou shalt know of the Rose, the Rose, the Rose o’ the World! With thee shall I bear the chalice of blood-tipped lilies, The chalice of red, sweet lilies under the moon? But now there is no moon, nor any sun ; Only the world’s gray noon is for thee and me; There is no sound in the nerveless silences Of the fading world ; there is no quiver of light On the river of life ; we are unwed, my Rose, Nor knoweth each the other; we are undone, My Rose, my secret Rose, my unknown Rose. And still the Autumn woods are rustling dankly With sodden leaves made brown by wind and rain; And the satyrs are fled under the earth to hide From the sunless world, and the nymphs are frozen to air To be reborn in the sunlight ; there is no more joy, For mournfulness is fallen on the world, And decadence, and decay, and the odour of Eld. The spirit sleeps; the Rose o’ the World lies buried