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; Te whom my soul has followed into hell, I love and pity, O sad sisters mine, Tour thirsts unquenched, your pains no tongue can tell, And your great hearts, those urns of love divine! LA BEATRICE. In a burnt, ashen land, where no herb grew, I to the winds my cries of anguish threw; And in my thoughts, in that sad place apart, Pricked gently with the poignard o'er my heart. Then in full noon above my head a cloud Descended tempest-swollen, and a crowd Of wild, lascivious spirits huddled there, The cruel and curious demons of the air, Who coldly to consider me began; Then, as a crowd jeers some unhappy man, Exchanging gestures, winking with their eyes-- I heard a laughing and a whispering rise: "Let us at leisure contemplate this clown, This shadow of Hamlet aping Hamlet's frown, With wandering eyes and hair upon the wind. Is't not a pity that this empty mind, This tramp, this actor out of work, this droll, Because he knows how to assume a rôle Should dream that eagles and insects, streams and woods, Stand still to hear him chaunt his dolorous moods? Even unto us, who made these ancient things, The fool his public lamentation sings." With pride as lofty as the towering cloud, I would have stilled these clamouring demons loud, And turned in scorn my sovereign head away Had I not seen--O sight to dim the day!-- There in the middle of the troupe obscene The proud and peerless beauty of my Queen! She laughed with them at all my dark distress, And gave to each in turn a vile caress. THE SOUL OF WINE. One eve in the bottle sang the soul of wine: "Man, unto thee, dear disinherited, I sing a song of love and light divine-- Prisoned in glass beneath my seals of red. "I know thou labourest on the hill of fire, In sweat and pain beneath a flaming sun, To give the life and soul my vines desire, And I am grateful for thy labours done. "For I find joys unnumbered when I lave The throat of man by travail long outworn, And his hot bosom is a sweeter grave Of sounder sleep than my cold caves forlorn.