me—the daily sum of sense—
The long continual trouble of desire—
The stain of blood blotting the stain of lust—
The weary foulness of my days, which wrecked
My heart and brain, and left me at the last
A madman and accursèd; and I knew,
Far higher than the sensual slope which held
The gods whom erst I worshipped, a white peak
Of Purity, and a stern voice pealing doom—
Not the mad voice of old—which pierced so deep
Within my life, that with the reeking blade
Wet with the heart's blood of my child I smote
My guilty heart in twain.

Ah! fool, to dream
That the long stain of time might fade and merge
In one poor chrism of blood. They taught of yore,
My priests who flattered me—nor knew at all
The greater God I know, who sits afar
Beyond those earthly shapes, passionless, pure,
And awful as the Dawn—that the gods cared
For costly victims, drinking in the steam
Of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs
Were offered for my wrong. Ah no! there is
No recompense in these, nor any charm
To cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear
Of suffering, when the soul which seized too much
Of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain
That doth redress its ill. For what is Right
But equipoise of Nature, alternating
The Too Much and Too Little? Not on earth
The salutary silent forces work
Their final victory, but year on year
Passes, and age on age, and leaves the debt
Unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul
Unloads itself in pain.

Therefore it is
I suffer as I suffered ere swift death
Set me not free, no otherwise; and yet
There comes a healing purpose in my pain
I never knew on earth; nor ever here
The once-loved evil grows, only the tale
Of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs
The accomplished sum of wrong. And yet desire
Pursues me still—sick, impotent desire,
Fiercer than that of earth.

We are ourselves
Our heaven and hell, the joy, the penalty,
The yearning, the fruition. Earth is hell
Or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still,
After the swift soul leaves the gates of death,
The pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy
Purer and less alloyed, and we are damned
Or blest, as we have lived."

He ceased, with a wail
Like some complaining wind among the pines
Or pent among the fretful ocean caves,
A sick, sad sound.

Then as I looked, I saw
His eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips
Open, his weary hands stretch idly forth
As if to clutch the air—infinite pain
And mockery of hope. "Seest thou them now?"
He said. "I thirst, I parch, I famish, yet
They still elude me, fair and tempting fruit
And cooling waters. Now they come again.
See, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips,
Now I shall quench me. Nay, again they fly
And mock me. Seest thou them, or am I shut
From hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still,
A madman and in Hell?"

And as I passed
In horror, his large eyes and straining hands
Froze all my soul with pity.

Then it was
A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen,
With passion in her eyes, and fear and pain
Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees
Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows
Himself the cause, yet now is powerless
To stay the wrong he would.

Seeing me gaze
In pity on her woe, she turned and spake
With a low wailing voice—

"Thou well mayst gaze
With horror on me, sir, for I am lost;
I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago,
Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood
Of him I loved, and found for recompense
But self-inflicted death and age-long woe,
Which purges not my sin. And yet not I
It was who did it, but the gods, who took
A woman's loveless heart and tortured it
With love as with a fire. It was not I
Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate 'twas which brought
My love and me together, Fate which barred
The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame
To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart,
Where no relief might come.

The King was old,
And I a girl. 'Tis an old tale which runs
Thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. He had spent
His sum of love long since, and I—I knew not
A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange
To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep
Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know
A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought
For pomp, or palace, or respect of men;
Nor always in the stately marriage bed,
Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down,
Nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers
Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot,
Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars,
Dwells all night and is blest.

My love, my life!
He was the old man's son, a fair white soul—
Not like the others, whom the fire of youth
Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained
Thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal
And pure as any maid. No wandering glance
He deigned for all the maidens young and fair
Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore,
Upon the high lawns wandering alone,
He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis,
Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath
From the unpolluted meads, where never herd
Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come,
But the bee sails upon unfettered wing
Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity
Waters them with soft dews;[1] and yet he showed
Of all his peers most manly—heart and soul
A very man, tender and true, and strong
And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien
Fair as Apollo's self.

It was at first
In Trœzen that I saw him, when he came
To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths
He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not
Whom 'twas I saw, nor that I held the place
Which was his mother's, only from the throng
Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart
Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance
Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs,
The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes
Tender yet full of passion, the thick locks
Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore
The down of early manhood, seemed to feed
My heart with short-lived joy.

For when he stood
Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire,
Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse
Of Aphrodité burn me, as it burned
My mother before me, and I dared not meet
His innocent, frank young eyes.

Said I then young?
Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known
The secret things of life, which age the soul
In a moment, writing on its front their mark
'Too early ripe;' and he was innocent,
My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms
I had defied the world.

I turned away
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