Collected Works (Vol. I)

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE 169 Warm wealth of draperies, the broidered room, And delicate tissues of pale silk that shine About her bed: all kiss the dead girl’s face With shadowy reltuctances that gloom Over and under, and the cold divine Presence of Death bedews the quiet place. She was so gracious ; she was grace. Once, in the long insidious hours that steal Through summer’s pleasant kingdom, she would weave Such songs, such murmurs of the dusky breeze That passed, like silken tapestries that feel The silkier cheeks of maidens as they cleave Tender to patient lovers, for the ease Of lips fulfilled of harmonies. Such songs were hers. What song is hers to-night When she is smitten in her bridal bed, Because I would not trust the God that gave Her smooth virginity to godlier might, My glory? There she lies divine and dead Because I would not trust the sullen wave | Of time ; and chose this way-—her grave. I had not thought the poison left her so— Smiling, enticing, exquisite. I meant Rather that beauty to destroy, to leave No subtle languors on that breast of snow, No curves by God’s caressing finger bent, To bid me think of her: I would de- ceive My memory—now [ can but grieve. Perhaps our happiness, despite of all, Would have grown comelier and never tired ; Perhaps the pitiful pale face had been Alway my true wife’s; let me not recall Her first shy glance! This woman I de- sired, And sealed my own for ever by this keen . Death that crowns her Death’s queen. Death’s and not mine: I was a fool to kiss Her dead lips—ay, her living lips for ‘that ! I cannot bid her rise and live again. I would not. Nay, I know not; for is this My triumph or my ruin, satiate Of death, insatiate alway of pain? What have I done? In vain, in vain! I will not look at her; I dare not stay. I will go down and mingle with the throng, Find some debasing dulling sacrifice, Some shameless harlot with thin lips grown grey In desperate desire, and so with song And wine fling hellward. Yes, she does not rise— O if she opened once her eyes ! THE ALTAR OF ARTEMIS. WHERE, in the coppice, oak and pine With mystic yew and elm are found, Sweeping the skies, that grow divine With the dark wind’s despairing sound, The wind that roars from the profound, And smites the mountain-tops, and calls Mute spirits to black festivals, And feasts in valleys iron-bound, Desolate crags, and barren ground ;— There in the strong storm-shaken grove Swings the pale censer-fire for love. The foursquare altar, rightly hewn, And overlaid with beaten gold, Stands in the gloom ; the stealthy tune Of singing maidens overbold Desires mad mysteries untold,