His mouth is ashes. The double flame of his lips is dead. In its flower his manhood is cut down. How beautiful is the young man’s body! And stainless is the body of the hero. The women bend to kiss him one by one, slowly, lingeringly, as grapes are eaten from the vine; and some weep, and others laugh, beside themselves for grieving. I am the lover, whom you thus bear upon your shoulders; young maidens, I am the betrothed. I am the ploughshare in the wheatfield, whom thus you lay down for burial. And she who should have been my field and my harvest shall die without flower and without ripening. Save me at least, O pitying women, from the cold earth and from oblivion. Keep me warm in the paradise of your lips, an hour longer keep me among you, in the sweet air that smells of honey and rosemary, of clove-pinks and the flowering mint. Build about me the warm chamber of your kisses. My sword and my shield are gone from me; deathless, they have no need of the dead. And for my shrouding, women, wind me about with your long hair, and sew my shroud with your tears. With the long needles of your tears sew me fast into your burning hair. V If we are not Love and the food of Love, what are we? Our blossoming cut down, we follow the setting sun into darkness and the night of rain. Lovers, our beloved, is this the love for which our mothers bore us? O mothers, why bring us forth to such grieving? Our souls leap up against our fate, and our hearts break from our bosoms. Kiss us, young sisters, in the name of Love and Death; and of the Lord of Love, who is King of its fountains and gardens, and opens their gates to the Beloved in Paradise. O fair and stricken and undone--the young maids answer--come to us, you who are parted from the lips that cherished you and the flesh of your flesh. And you, young maidens--the mourning women reply to them--you, who have missed your dream and your fruition, come to us, dear hearts. Poor wives.... Poor maids! They weep, and kiss each other, and clasp each other smiling through their sorrow. Then, singing, they part beneath the roof of night, while Ocean consumes the last embers of day, and darkens under the sky incarnadine. ANDRÉ SUARÈS [Illustration: _ÉMILE-RENÉ MÉNARD_ FIGURE FROM A SKETCH IN COLOURED CRAYON] _MRS. HUMPHRY WARD_ WORDSWORTH’S VALLEY IN WAR-TIME