UPON the altars of Queen Venus we Have set our own Hearts and the hearts our own hearts have in fee, Till the swift flame makes red the Cyprian sea Before her throne. The tethered teams of doves, affrighted, rush In disarray: The snow-white cygnet's plumage seems to blush, The sable swallow's coat takes on the flush Of dying day. Men bring their hearts and fling them on the pyre, To feed the blaze That sends its leaping, lambent tongues of fire Toward High Heaven, to bid the sun retire His baffled rays. They are the slaves of Venus, held in thrall Beneath her spell, And, as the Goddess sees their fuel fall, She gives them praise, "Ye are Love's Lovers, all, And have done well!" The rite is ended, and the spent flame dies, To leave, alone, Dust of dead hearts and one live heart that lies Unscorched and quick. The Goddess seeks the skies, While I make moan: "Elusive Goddess, to whose shrine I bring My first fruits, be No more elusive of my worshipping: But passion thou for pilgrim passioning For Love and Thee!" |