THE GATE OF THE SANCTUARY. 
79 
Once more it seeks in memory for reverence, not regret, 
And it loves you still, my sisters !  as God shall not 
forget. 
It is ill to blaspheme the silence with a wicked whispered 
thought— 
How still they were, those nights !  when this web of 
things was wrought ! 
How still, how terrible !  O my dolorous tender brides, 
As I lay and dreamt in the dark by your shameful 
beautiful sides ! 
And now you are mine no more, I know ;  but I cannot 
bear 
The curse—that another is drunk on the life that stirs 
your hair : 
Every hair was alive with a spark of midnight’s delicate 
flame, 
Or a glow of the nether fire, or an old illustrious shame. 
Many, so many, were ye to make one Womanhood— 
A thing of fire and flesh, of wine and glory and blood, 
In whose rose-orient texture a golden light is spun, 
A gossamer scheme of love, as water in the sun 
Flecked by wonderful bars, most delicately crossed, 
Worked into wedded beauties, flickering, never lost— 
That is the spirit of love, incarnate in your flesh ! 
Your bodies had wearied me, but your passion was ever 
fresh : 
You were many indeed, but your love for me was one. 
Then I perceived the stars to reflect a single sun— 
Not burning suns themselves, in furious regular race, 
But mirrors of midnight, lit to remind us of His face.