Ambergris

AMBERGRIS 95 9. The sound of my own voice carries me on. I am as a ship whose anchors are all gone, Whose rudder is held by Love the indomitable— Purposeful helmsman ! Were his port high Hell, Who should be fool enough to care ? Suppose Hell’s waters wash the memory of this rose Out of my mind, what misery matters then ? Or, if they leave it, all the woes of men Are as pale shadows in the glory of That passionate splendour of Love. 10. Ay ! my own voice, my own thoughts. These, then, must be The mutiny of some worm’s misery, Some chained despair knotted into my flesh, Some chance companion, some soul damned afresh Since my redemption, that is vocal at all, For I am wrapt away from light and call In the sweet heart of the red rose. My spirit only knows This woman and no more ; who would know more I, I am concentrate In the unshakable state Of constant rapture. Who should pour His ravings in the air for winds to whirl, Far from the central pearl Of all the diadem of the universe ? Let God take pen, rehearse Dull nursery tales ; then, not before, O rose, Red rose ! shall the beloved of thee, Infinite rose ! pen puerile poetry That turns in writing to vile prose. 11. Were this the quintessential plume of Keats And Shelley and Swinburne and Verlaine, Could I outsoar them, all their lyric feats, Excel their utterance vain With one convincing rapture, beat them hollow As an ass’s skin ; wert thou, Apollo,