'Tis veils of beauty for beautiful eyes, 'Tis the trembling light of the naked noon, 'Tis a medley of blue and gold, the moon And stars in the cool of autumn skies. Let every shape of its shade be born; Colour, away! come to me, shade! Only of shade can the marriage be made Of dream with dream and of flute with horn. Shun the Point, lest death with it come, Unholy laughter and cruel wit (For the eyes of the angels weep at it) And all the garbage of scullery-scum. Take Eloquence, and wring the neck of him! You had better, by force, from time to time, Put a little sense in the head of Rhyme: If you watch him not, you will be at the beck of him. O, who shall tell us the wrongs of Rhyme? What witless savage or what deaf boy Has made for us this twopenny toy Whose bells ring hollow and out of time? Music always and music still! Let your verse be the wandering thing That flutters in flight from a soul on the wing Towards other skies at a new whim's will. Let your verse be the luck of the lure Afloat on the winds that at morning hint Of the odours of thyme and the savour of mint ... And all the rest is literature. II. MEZZETIN CHANTANT Go, and with never a care But the care to keep happiness! Crumple a silken dress And snatch a song in the air. Hear the moral of all the wise In a world where happy folly Is wiser than melancholy: Forget the hour as it flies! The one thing needful on earth, it Is not to be whimpering. Is life after all a thing Real enough to be worth it? _From Sagesse_ I The little hands that once were mine, The hands I loved, the lovely hands, After the roadways and the strands, And realms and kingdoms once divine, And mortal loss of all that seems Lost with the old sad pagan things, Royal as in the days of kings The dear hands open to me dreams. Hands of dream, hands of holy flame Upon my soul in blessing laid, What is it that these hands have said That my soul hears and swoons to them? Is it a phantom, this pure sight Of mother's love made tenderer, Of spirit with spirit linked to share The mutual kinship of delight? Good sorrow, dear remorse, and ye, Blest dreams, O hands ordained of heaven To tell me if I am forgiven, Make but the sign that pardons me! II O my God, thou hast wounded me with love, Behold the wound, that is still vibrating, O my God, thou hast wounded me with love. O my God, thy fear hath fallen upon me, Behold the burn is there, and it throbs aloud, O my God, thy fear hath fallen upon me. O my God, I have known that all is vile And that thy glory hath stationed itself in me, O my God, I have known that all is vile.