28 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
WEDLOCK. 
 
A SONNET. 
 
 
 SAW the Russian peasants build a ring 
 Of glowing embers of the bubbling pine. 
 In the green heart o’ th’ salamander line 
They scatter roses.  Now the youngsters spring 
Within, who with hard-shut eyes hope to bring 
 From out the fiery circle one divine 
 Blossom of rose, as from a poisonous mine 
Gold comes to gird the palace of a king. 
 
Envious I sprang—and found the last rose gone. 
 So in the fiery ring of wedlock, blind, 
 Mad, one may leap, no rose perhaps to find 
(Or, if no rose, good fortune finds no thorn), 
 But—mark the difference—palpable and plain 
 Rose or no rose, one leaps not out again. 
 
  I