Alice: An Adultery

THE FORTY-FIFTH DAY “ Peace, fool ! I have not done.” Troilus and Cressida. Thou knowest, O love, how tired our bodies grow Forgotten in quick converse, love to love ; How the flame flickers of the ghost above, The spirit’s kiss ; the sleepless to-and-fro Movement of love’s desire too strong to know Or care for that it takes its substance of— As if life’s burden were not drear enough Or death’s deliverance not so far and slow. Our bodies almost perish, with one thought Crowned and completed, consecrate and shrined : A perfect temple of fine amber wrought, Whose shrine’s the body and whose lamp the mind. The heart is priest and sacrifice in one ; And, where it sinned or sorrowed, shall atone. 87