II
There is an alchemy to heal the hurt
Done to our love by shame the dragon of ill
With his allies the fear, that wars begirt
With clouds, and that sad sceptic in the will
That sneaks within our citadel, that steals
The keys and opens stealthily the gates
When we are sleeping, when the dawn conceals
Its earliest glimmer and our blood abates
Awhile its tide ! O mystic maiden o’ mine,
Did I not warn you of the insulting foes?
Blind worms that writhe for envy, pious swine~
That gnash their teeth to espy the gold and rose
Out flaming like the dawn when kiss for kiss
Passed and for ever sealed our bale and bliss.
IT]
Behold ! the elixir for the weeping wound !
Is it that wine that Avallaunius poured
From the Red Cup when fair Titania swooned
Before the wrath of her insulted lord?
Is it the purple essence that distilled
From Jesu’s side beneath the invoking spear?
Or that pale vase that Proserpina filled
From wells of her sad garden, cold and clear
And something overbitter and oversweet ?
Or in the rout of Dionysus did
Some Bassarid prophesy in her holy heat
On such a draught as I for you have hid
In this the Graal of mine enchaunted shrine
To pour for you, o mystic maiden o’ mine?