"The dust of praise that is blown everywhere In all men's faces with the common air; The bay-leaf that wants chafing to be sweet Before they wind it in a singer's hair."

So that one dawn I rode forth sorrowing; I had no hope but of some evil thing, And so rode slowly past the windy wheat And past the vineyard and the water-spring,

Up to the Horsel. A great elder-tree Held back its heaps of flowers to let me see The ripe tall gra.s.s, and one that walked therein, Naked, with hair shed over to the knee.

She walked between the blossom and the gra.s.s; I knew the beauty of her, what she was, The beauty of her body and her sin, And in my flesh the sin of hers, alas!

Alas! for sorrow is all the end of this.

O sad kissed mouth, how sorrowful it is!

O breast whereat some suckling sorrow clings, Red with the bitter blossom of a kiss!

Ah, with blind lips I felt for you, and found About my neck your hands and hair enwound, The hands that stifle and the hair that stings, I felt them fasten sharply without sound.

Yea, for my sin I had great store of bliss: Rise up, make answer for me, let thy kiss Seal my lips hard from speaking of my sin, Lest one go mad to hear how sweet it is.

Yet I waxed faint with fume of barren bowers, And murmuring of the heavy-headed hours; And let the dove's beak fret and peck within My lips in vain, and Love shed fruitless flowers.

So that G.o.d looked upon me when your hands Were hot about me; yea, G.o.d brake my bands To save my soul alive, and I came forth Like a man blind and naked in strange lands

That hears men laugh and weep, and knows not whence Nor wherefore, but is broken in his sense; Howbeit I met folk riding from the north Towards Rome, to purge them of their souls' offence,

And rode with them, and spake to none; the day Stunned me like lights upon some wizard way, And ate like fire mine eyes and mine eyesight; So rode I, hearing all these chant and pray,

And marvelled; till before us rose and fell White cursed hills, like outer skirts of h.e.l.l Seen where men's eyes look through the day to night, Like a jagged sh.e.l.l's lips, harsh, untunable,

Blown in between by devils' wrangling breath; Nathless we won well past that h.e.l.l and death, Down to the sweet land where all airs are good, Even unto Rome where G.o.d's grace tarrieth.

Then came each man and worshipped at his knees Who in the Lord G.o.d's likeness bears the keys To bind or loose, and called on Christ's shed blood, And so the sweet-souled father gave him ease.

But when I came I fell down at his feet, Saying, "Father, though the Lord's blood be right sweet, The spot it takes not off the panther's skin, Nor shall an Ethiop's stain be bleached with it.

"Lo, I have sinned and have spat out at G.o.d, Wherefore his hand is heavier and his rod More sharp because of mine exceeding sin, And all his raiment redder than bright blood

"Before mine eyes; yea, for my sake I wot The heat of h.e.l.l is waxen seven times hot Through my great sin." Then spake he some sweet word, Giving me cheer; which thing availed me not;

Yea, scarce I wist if such indeed were said; For when I ceased--lo, as one newly dead Who hears a great cry out of h.e.l.l, I heard The crying of his voice across my head.

"Until this dry shred staff, that hath no whit Of leaf nor bark, bear blossom and smell sweet, Seek thou not any mercy in G.o.d's sight, For so long shalt thou be cast out from it."

Yea, what if dried-up stems wax red and green, Shall that thing be which is not nor has been?

Yea, what if sapless bark wax green and white, Shall any good fruit grow upon my sin?

Nay, though sweet fruit were plucked of a dry tree, And though men drew sweet waters of the sea, There should not grow sweet leaves on this dead stem, This waste wan body and shaken soul of me.

Yea, though G.o.d search it warily enough, There is not one sound thing in all thereof; Though he search all my veins through, searching them He shall find nothing whole therein but love.

For I came home right heavy, with small cheer, And lo my love, mine own soul's heart, more dear Than mine own soul, more beautiful than G.o.d, Who hath my being between the hands of her--

Fair still, but fair for no man saving me, As when she came out of the naked sea Making the foam as fire whereon she trod, And as the inner flower of fire was she.

Yea, she laid hold upon me, and her mouth Clove unto mine as soul to body doth, And, laughing, made her lips luxurious; Her hair had smells of all the sunburnt south,

Strange spice and flower, strange savour of crushed fruit, And perfume the swart kings tread underfoot For pleasure when their minds wax amorous, Charred frankincense and grated sandal-root.

And I forgot fear and all weary things, All ended prayers and perished thanksgivings, Feeling her face with all her eager hair Cleave to me, clinging as a fire that clings

To the body and to the raiment, burning them; As after death I know that such-like flame Shall cleave to me for ever; yea, what care, Albeit I burn then, having felt the same?

Ah love, there is no better life than this; To have known love, how bitter a thing it is, And afterward be cast out of G.o.d's sight; Yea, these that know not, shall they have such bliss

High up in barren heaven before his face As we twain in the heavy-hearted place, Remembering love and all the dead delight, And all that time was sweet with for a s.p.a.ce?

For till the thunder in the trumpet be, Soul may divide from body, but not we One from another; I hold thee with my hand, I let mine eyes have all their will of thee,

I seal myself upon thee with my might, Abiding alway out of all men's sight Until G.o.d loosen over sea and land The thunder of the trumpets of the night.

EXPLICIT LAUS VENERIS.

PHDRA

HIPPOLYTUS; PHDRA; CHORUS OF TROEZENIAN WOMEN

HIPPOLYTUS.

Lay not thine hand upon me; let me go; Take off thine eyes that put the G.o.ds to shame; What, wilt thou turn my loathing to thy death?

PHDRA.

Nay, I will never loosen hold nor breathe Till thou have slain me; G.o.dlike for great brows Thou art, and thewed as G.o.ds are, with clear hair: Draw now thy sword and smite me as thou art G.o.d, For verily I am smitten of other G.o.ds, Why not of thee?

CHORUS.

O queen, take heed of words; Why wilt thou eat the husk of evil speech?

Wear wisdom for that veil about thy head And goodness for the binding of thy brows.

PHDRA.

Nay, but this G.o.d hath cause enow to smite; If he will slay me, baring breast and throat, I lean toward the stroke with silent mouth And a great heart. Come, take thy sword and slay; Let me not starve between desire and death, But send me on my way with glad wet lips; For in the vein-drawn ashen-coloured palm Death's hollow hand holds water of sweet draught To dip and slake dried mouths at, as a deer Specked red from thorns laps deep and loses pain.

Yea, if mine own blood ran upon my mouth, I would drink that. Nay, but be swift with me; Set thy sword here between the girdle and breast, For I shall grow a poison if I live.

Are not my cheeks as gra.s.s, my body pale, And my breath like a dying poisoned man's?

O whatsoever of G.o.dlike names thou be, By thy chief name I charge thee, thou strong G.o.d, And bid thee slay me. Strike, up to the gold, Up to the hand-grip of the hilt; strike here; For I am Cretan of my birth; strike now; For I am Theseus' wife; stab up to the rims, I am born daughter to Pasiphae.

See thou spare not for greatness of my blood, Nor for the shining letters of my name: Make thy sword sure inside thine hand and smite, For the bright writing of my name is black, And I am sick with hating the sweet sun.