"Satin ease of the body, Fattened sloth of the hands, These and their like he will not send, Only immortal fires to rend -- And the world's end is your journey's end, And your stream chokes in the sands. "Pleached calms shall not await you, Peace you shall never find; Nought but the living moorland Scourged naked by the wind. "Nought but the living moorland, And your love's hand in yours; The strength more sure than surety, The mercy that endures. "Then, though they give you to be burned, And slay you like a stoat, You have found the world's heart in the turn of a cheek, Heaven in the lift of a throat. "Although they break you on the wheel, That stood so straight in the sun, Behind you the trumpets split the sky, Where the lost and furious fight goes by -- And God, our God, will have victory When the red day is done!" Their mirth rolled to the rafters, They bellowed lechery; Light as a drifting feather My love slipped from my knee. Within, the lights were yellow In drowsy rooms and warm; Without, the stabbing lightning Shattered across the storm. Within, the great logs crackled, The drink-horns emptied soon; Without, the black cloaks of the clouds Strangled the waning moon. My love crossed o'er the threshold -- God! but the night was murk! I set myself against the cold, And left them to their work. Their shouts rolled to the rafters; A bitterer way was mine, And I left them in the tavern, Drinking the yellow wine! The last faint echoes rang along the plains, Died, and were gone. The genie spoke: "Thy song Serves well enough -- but yet thy task remains; Many and rending pains Shall torture him who dares delay too long!" His brown face hardened to a leaden mask. A bitter brine crusted the fisher's cheek -- "Almighty God, one thing alone I ask, Show me a task, a task!" The hard cup of the sky shone, gemmed and bleak. "O love, whom I have sought by devious ways; O hidden beauty, naked as a star; You whose bright hair has burned across my days, Making them lamps of praise; O dawn-wind, breathing of Arabia! "You have I served. Now fire has parched the vine, And Death is on the singers and the song. No longer are there lips to cling to mine, And the heart wearies of wine, And I am sick, for my desire is long. "O love, soft-moving, delicate and tender! In her gold house the pipe calls querulously, They cloud with thin green silks her body slender, They talk to her and tend her; Come, piteous, gentle love, and set me free!"