flattened leaves;
The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow
     gloom that stains
The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline
     weaves.

It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance, I
     endured too long.
I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the
     flower of my soul
And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots
     are strong
Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil's
     little control.

And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots
     are entangled and fight
Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness, I
     know that there
In the night where we first have being, before we rise
     on the light,
We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we
     do not spare.

And in the original dark the roots cannot keep,
     cannot know
Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves
     on to the dark,
And drawing the darkness together, crush from it a
     twilight, a slow
Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower's
     bright spark.

I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they
     turned on me;
I came with gentleness, with my heart 'twixt my
     hands like a bowl,
Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt it
     triumphantly
And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my
     soul.

But what have I to do with the boys, deep down in
     my soul, my love?
I throw from out of the darkness my self like a flower
     into sight,
Like a flower from out of the night-time, I lift my
     face, and those
Who will may warm their hands at me, comfort this
     night.

But whosoever would pluck apart my flowering shall
     burn their hands,
So flowers are tender folk, and roots can only hide,
Yet my flowerings of love are a fire, and the scarlet
     brands
Of my love are roses to look at, but flames to chide.

But comfort me, my love, now the fires are low,
Now I am broken to earth like a winter destroyed,
     and all
Myself but a knowledge of roots, of roots in the dark
     that throw
A net on the undersoil, which lies passive beneath
     their thrall.

But comfort me, for henceforth my love is yours
     alone,
To you alone will I offer the bowl, to you will I give
My essence only, but love me, and I will atone
To you for my general loving, atone as long as I live.

SCENT OF IRISES

A FAINT, sickening scent of irises
Persists all morning. Here in a jar on the table
A fine proud spike of purple irises
Rising above the class-room litter, makes me unable
To see the class's lifted and bended faces
Save in a broken pattern, amid purple and gold and
    sable.

I can smell the gorgeous bog-end, in its breathless
Dazzle of may-blobs, when the marigold glare overcast
     you
With fire on your cheeks and your brow and your
    chin as you dipped
Your face in the marigold bunch, to touch and contrast
    you,
Your own dark mouth with the bridal faint lady-smocks,
Dissolved on the golden sorcery you should not
    outlast.

You amid the bog-end's yellow incantation,
You sitting in the cowslips of the meadow above,
Me, your shadow on the bog-flame, flowery may-blobs,
Me full length in the cowslips, muttering you love;
You, your soul like a lady-smock, lost, evanescent,
You with your face all rich, like the sheen of a
    dove.

You are always asking, do I remember, remember
The butter-cup bog-end where the flowers rose up
And kindled you over deep with a cast of gold?
You ask again, do the healing days close up
The open darkness which then drew us in,
The dark which then drank up our brimming cup.

You upon the dry, dead beech-leaves, in the fire of
    night
Burnt like a sacrifice; you invisible;
Only the fire of darkness, and the scent of you!
—And yes, thank God, it still is possible
The healing days shall close the darkness up
Wherein we fainted like a smoke or dew.

Like vapour, dew, or poison. Now, thank God,
The fire of night is gone, and your face is ash
Indistinguishable on the grey, chill day;
The night has burnt us out, at last the good
Dark fire burns on untroubled, without clash
Of you upon the dead leaves saying me Yea.

THE PROPHET

AH, my darling, when over the purple horizon shall
    loom
The shrouded mother of a new idea, men hide their
    faces,
Cry out and fend her off, as she seeks her procreant
    groom,
Wounding themselves against her, denying her
    fecund embraces.

LAST WORDS TO MIRIAM

YOURS is the shame and sorrow
  But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
  He creates with his shine.

I was diligent to explore you,
  Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore you
Shrivelling down in the final dour
  Anguish—then I suffered a balk.

I knew your pain, and it broke
  My fine, craftsman's nerve;
Your body quailed at my stroke,
And my courage failed to give you the last
  Fine torture you did deserve.

You are shapely, you are adorned,
  But opaque and dull in the flesh,
Who, had I but pierced with the thorned
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast
  In a lovely illumined mesh.

Like a painted window: the best
  Suffering burnt through your flesh,
Undrossed it and left it blest
With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but
     now
  Who shall take you afresh?

Now who will burn you free
  From your body's terrors and dross,
Since the fire has failed in me?
What man will stoop in your flesh to plough
  The shrieking cross?

A mute, nearly beautiful thing
  Is your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening,
Warping the perfect image of God,
  And darkening my eternal fame.

MYSTERY

Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.

I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.

And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.

And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.

Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.

Glimmering still
In ecstasy,