Yes, such will you be, Queen of every grace! When the last sacramental words are said; And beneath grass and flowers that lovely face Moulders among the dead. Then, O Belovèd, whisper to the worm That crawls up to devour you with a kiss, That I still guard in memory the dear form Of love that comes to this! AN ALLEGORY Here is a woman, richly clad and fair, Who in her wine dips her long, heavy hair; Love's claws, and that sharp poison which is sin, Are dulled against the granite of her skin. Death she defies, Debauch she smiles upon, For their sharp scythe-like talons every one Pass by her in their all-destructive play; Leaving her beauty till a later day. Goddess she walks; sultana in her leisure; She has Mohammed's faith that heaven is pleasure, And bids all men forget the world's alarms Upon her breast, between her open arms. She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid, Without whom the world's onward dream would fade, That bodily beauty is the supreme gift Which may from every sin the terror lift. Hell she ignores, and Purgatory defies; And when black Night shall roll before her eyes, She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn, Without remorse or hate--as one new-born. THE ACCURSED Like pensive herds at rest upon the sands, These to the sea-horizons turn their eyes; Out of their folded feet and clinging hands Bitter sharp tremblings and soft languors rise. Some tread the thicket by the babbling stream, Their hearts with untold secrets ill at ease; Calling the lover of their childhood's dream, They wound the green bark of the shooting trees. Others like sisters wander, grave and slow, Among the rocks haunted by spectres thin, Where Antony saw as larvæ surge and flow The veined bare breasts that tempted him to sin. Some, when the resinous torch of burning wood Flares in lost pagan caverns dark and deep, Call thee to quench the fever in their blood, Bacchus, who singest old remorse to sleep! Then there are those the scapular bedights, Whose long white vestments hide the whip's red stain, Who mix, in sombre woods on lonely nights, The foam of pleasure with the tears of pain. O virgins, demons, monsters, martyrs! ye Who scorn whatever actual appears; Saints, satyrs, seekers of Infinity, So full of cries, so full of bitter tears; Ye whom my soul has followed into hell, I love and pity, O sad sisters mine, Your thirsts unquenched, your pains no tongue can tell, And your great hearts, those urns of love divine! LA BEATRICE