Perhaps the passions of mankind Are but the torches mystical Lit by some spirit-hand to find The dwelling of the Master-Mind That knows the secret of it all, In the great darkness and the wind. We are the Candle, Love the Flame, Each little life-light flickers out, Love bides, immortally the same: When of life’s fever we shall tire He will desert us, and the fire Rekindle new in prince or lout. Twin-born of knowledge and of lust, He was before us, he shall be Indifferent still of thee and me, When shattered is life’s golden cup. When thy young limbs are shrivelled up, And when my heart is turned to dust. Nay, sweet, smile not to know at last That thou and I, or knave, or fool, Are but the involitient tool Of some world purpose vague and vast. No bar to passion’s fury set, With monstrous poppies spice the wine: For only drunk are we divine, And only mad shall we forget! A BALLAD OF KING DAVID As David with Bath-Sheba lay, Both drunk with kisses long denied, The King, with quaking lips and gray, Beheld a spectre at his side That said no word nor went away. Then to his leman spake the King, The ghostly presence challenging: “Bath-Sheba, erst Uriah’s wife, Thy lips are as the Cup of Life That holds the purplest wine of God, Too sweet for any underling.” “Yet,” spake Bath-Sheba, sad of mien, “Why from thy visage went the sheen As though thy troubled eye had seen A shadow, like a dead man’s curse, Rise threatening from the mound terrene?” “’Twas but the falling dusk, that fills The palace with fantastic ills. Uriah sleeps in alien sands Soundly. ’Tis not his ghost that stands, Living or dead, or anything ’Twixt the King’s pleasure and the King.” Bath-Sheba’s glad heart rose, then fell: “Where is it that thy fancies dwell? Is there some maid in Israel Broad-hipped, with green eyes like the sea, Whose mouth is like a honey-cell, And sweeter than the mouth of me?” “The pressure of thy lips on mine Is exquisite like snow-cooled wine. Over the wasteness of my life Thy love is risen like a sun: All other loves that once seemed sweet Are seized by black oblivion.” Again upon the shadow-thing He gazed in silence, questioning. And lo! with quaint familiar ring A spectral voice addressed the King: “O David, David, Judah’s swan! Why unto me dost thou this thing?” “Who art thou?” “I am Jonathan, My heart is like a wounded fawn. “When Saul’s fierce anger, like a bull, Rose, by the Evil One made blind, My love to thee was wonderful, Passing the love of womankind. Hast thou forgotten everything My heart aches in remembering? Is such the harvest of our spring Of war and love and lute-playing?”