WHY JESUS WEPT 
55 
Thou chaste pale goddess blooded to the human, 
Artemis rosy like Hippolyta ! 
Ay, my lord, were it true, your liar’s lore, 
(Oh blasphemy !) were my young love an whore, 
An hag of sixty ; I were greater so. 
He who doth know 
And fears and hates, 
Is not as he who cares not, but creates 
A royal crown from an old bonnet string, 
A maiden from a strumpet :  that is to be like God, 
Who from all chaos, from the husks of matter, 
Crusts shed off putrefaction, shakes a wing 
And flies ; bids flowers spring from the dull black sod, 
Is not the scientist to shatter 
Beauty by dint of microscope, 
But wakes a wider hope 
And turns all to the beautiful ; so I. 
Angela, wake !  The midnight hour is nigh : — 
Let us renew the vows of love !  appease 
These amorous longings with grave ecstasies, 
The holy act of uttermost communion, 
The sacrament of life !  Awake, awake ! 
There is a secret in our subtle union 
That masters the grey snake. 
Ay !  let him lurk !  The Tree of Knowledge we 
Have fed our fill of ; this is Eden still. 
Awake, O Love !  and let me drink my fill 
Of thee — and thou of me ! 
Angela wakes.