Ambergris

92 AMBERGRIS All the concentred music that is I. O ! hear me not ! I die ; I am borne away in misery of dumb life That would in words flash forth the holiest heaven That to the immortal God of Gods is given, And, tongue-tied, stammers forth—my wife ! 4. I am dumb with rapture of thy loveliness. All metres match and mingle ; all words tire ; All lights, all sounds, all perfumes, all gold stress Of the honey-palate, all soft strokes expire In abject agony of broken sense To hymn the emotion tense Of somewhat higher—O ! how highest !—than all Their mystery : fall, O fall, Ye unavailing eagle-flights of song ! O wife ! these do thee wrong. 5. Thou knowest how I was blind ; How for mere minutes thy pure presence Was nought ; was ill defined ; A smudge across the mind, Drivelling in its brutal essence, Hog-wallowing in poetry, Incapable of thee. 6. Ah ! when the minutes grew to hours, And yet the beast, the fool, saw flowers And loved them, watched the moon rise, took delight In perfumes of the summer night, Caught in the glamour of the sun, Thought all the woe well won. How hours were days, and all the misery Abode, all mine : O thou ! didst thou regret ? Was thou asleep as I ? Didst thou not love me yet ? For, know ! the moon is not the moon until She hath the knowledge to fulfil Her music, till she know herself the moon.