"It is not good to laugh at love," I said. She laughed. Her brittle laughter broke and fell Tinkling between the terrace and the stars. "Look," I said. The cadence of the dance Came softly; and I tossed my cigaret That arched in fire and spattered on the turf. "Of no more moment than that waning spark Is love to your regard. The plucked-out heart Brought on a salver like the Baptist's head Is but a tid-bit for your teeth to crunch. Terrible in beauty, you speak doom, And lightnings lurk within your curtained eyes. I am but one who speak in suppliance here, Yet in my voice the voice of multitudes. Forever down the echoing vault of time Comes the ecstatic, the incredulous cry Of love that wakes and knows its strength, and beats With fervid fury at Life's warded gates. And when she comes -- and when the maiden comes, Her eyes sweet stores of virgin wonderment, With cool, swift fingers to unbar the door, Love, finding love, knows love's rich recompense. "Hear me," I said, and took her unshrinking hand: "O radiant virgin, no dark after-shame Shall silence me. I who have known desire Have seen you instant-poised, your cupped young breasts Guarding their honey savour; have seen the stain Of innocent guile upon your red ripe mouth; Your moonlight mantled cheek, your shadowed hair, Your body challenging the noose of Death -- I must speak out, I must reveal my pain, Fending the frosty fingertips of age Till I am answered." She recalled her gaze From some far flight; drew close her foamy scarf. And laughed ... @3Her brittle laughter broke and fell@1. |