One morning he threw the street door wide On coming in, and his vigorous stride Made the tools on his table rattle and jump. In his hands he carried a new-burst clump Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks To the wife he left an hour ago, Paul spoke to the Shadow. "Dear, you know To-day the calendar calls it Spring, And I woke this morning gathering Asphodels, in my dreams, for you. So I rushed out to see what flowers blew Their pink-and-purple-scented souls Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls, And made the approach to the Market Square A garden with smells and sunny air. I feel so well and happy to-day, I think I shall take a Holiday. And to-night we will have a little treat. I am going to bring you something to eat!" He looked at the Shadow anxiously. It was quite grave and silent. He Shut the outer door and came And leant against the window-frame. "Dearest," he said, "we live apart Although I bear you in my heart. We look out each from a different world. At any moment we may be hurled Asunder. They follow their orbits, we Obey their laws entirely. Now you must come, or I go there, Unless we are willing to live the flare Of a lighted instant and have it gone." A bee in the laurels began to drone. A loosened petal fluttered prone. "Man grows by eating, if you eat You will be filled with our life, sweet Will be our planet in your mouth. If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth Until I gain to where you are, And give you myself in whatever star May happen. O You Beloved of Me! Is it not ordered cleverly?" The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear, Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear. Paul slipped away as the dusk began To dim the little shop. He ran To the nearest inn, and chose with care As much as his thin purse could bear. As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking Of the sacred wafer, and through the making Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers That God will bless this labour of theirs; So Paul, in a sober ecstasy, Purchased the best which he could buy. Returning, he brushed his tools aside, And laid across the table a wide Napkin. He put a glass and plate On either side, in duplicate. Over the lady's, excellent With loveliness, the laurels bent. In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood, And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood Was the wine which should bring the lustihood Of human life to his lady's veins. When all was ready, all which pertains To a simple meal was there, with eyes Lit by the joy of his great emprise, He reverently bade her come, And forsake for him her distant home. He put meat on her plate and filled her glass, And waited what should come to pass.