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The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.

Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.

But -- there are wanderers in the middle mist,
Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell

Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,

Or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom;
For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.

Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
And do not love at all. Of these am I.

Success
I think if you had loved me when I wanted;

If I'd looked up one day, and seen your eyes,
And found my wild sick blasphemous prayer granted,

And your brown face, that's full of pity and wise,
Flushed suddenly; the white godhead in new fear

Intolerably so struggling, and so shamed;
Most holy and far, if you'd come all too near,

If earth had seen Earth's lordliest wild limbs tamed,
Shaken, and trapped, and shivering, for MY touch --

Myself should I have slain? or that foul you?
But this the strange gods, who had given so much,

To have seen and known you, this they might not do.
One last shame's spared me, one black word's unspoken;

And I'm alone; and you have not awoken.
Dust

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world's delight

Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust

Has stilled the labour of my breath --
When we are dust, when we are dust! --

Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,

We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun,
And light of foot, and unconfined,

Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air,
Will speed and gleam, down later days,

And like a secret pilgrim fare
By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
Till, beyond thinking, out of view,

One mote of all the dust that's I
Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind,
Warm in a sunset's afterglow,

The lovers in the flowers will find
A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
So high a beauty in the air,

And such a light, and such a quiring,
And such a radiantecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
Or out of earth, or in the height,

Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . .
But in that instant they shall learn

The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow,
Until the darkness close above;

And they will know -- poor fools, they'll know! --
One moment, what it is to love.

Kindliness
When love has changed to kindliness --

Oh, love, our hungry lips, that press
So tight that Time's an old god's dream

Nodding in heaven, and whisper stuff
Seven million years were not enough

To think on after, make it seem
Less than the breath of children playing,

A blasphemyscarce worth the saying,
A sorry jest, "When love has grown

To kindliness -- to kindliness!" . . .
And yet -- the best that either's known

Will change, and wither, and be less,
At last, than comfort, or its own

Remembrance. And when some caress
Tendered in habit (once a flame

All heaven sang out to) wakes the shame
Unworded, in the steady eyes

We'll have, -- THAT day, what shall we do?
Being so noble, kill the two

Who've reached their second-best? Being wise,
Break cleanly off, and get away.

Follow down other windier skies
New lures, alone? Or shall we stay,

Since this is all we've known, content
In the lean twilight of such day,

And not remember, not lament?
That time when all is over, and

Hand never flinches, brushing hand;
And blood lies quiet, for all you're near;

And it's but spoken words we hear,
Where trumpets sang; when the mere skies

Are stranger and nobler than your eyes;
And flesh is flesh, was flame before;

And infinite hungers leap no more
In the chance swaying of your dress;

And love has changed to kindliness.
Mummia

As those of old drank mummia
To fire their limbs of lead,

Making dead kings from Africa
Stand pandar to their bed;

Drunk on the dead, and medicined
With spiced imperial dust,

In a short night they reeled to find
Ten centuries of lust.

So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,
Stuffed love's infinity,

And sucked all lovers of all time
To rarify ecstasy.

Helen's the hair shuts out from me
Verona's livid skies;

Gypsy the lips I press; and see
Two Antonys in your eyes.

The unheard invisible lovely dead
Lie with us in this place,

And ghostly hands above my head
Close face to straining face;

Their blood is wine along our limbs;
Their whispering voices wreathe

Savage forgotten drowsy hymns
Under the names we breathe;

Woven from their tomb, and one with it,
The night wherein we press;

Their thousand pitchy pyres have lit
Your flaming nakedness.

For the uttermost years have cried and clung
To kiss your mouth to mine;

And hair long dust was caught, was flung,
Hand shaken to hand divine,

And Life has fired, and Death not shaded,
All Time's uncounted bliss,

And the height o' the world has flamed and faded,
Love, that our love be this!

The Fish
In a cool curving world he lies

And ripples with dark ecstasies.
The kind luxurious lapse and steal

Shapes all his universe to feel
And know and be; the clinging stream

Closes his memory, glooms his dream,
Who lips the roots o' the shore, and glides

Superb on unreturning tides.
Those silent waters weave for him

A fluctuant mutable world and dim,
Where wavering masses bulge and gape

Mysterious, and shape to shape
Dies momently through whorl and hollow,

And form and line and solid follow
Solid and line and form to dream

Fantastic down the eternal stream;
An obscure world, a shifting world,

Bulbous, or pulled to thin, or curled,
Or serpentine, or driving arrows,

Or serene slidings, or March narrows.
There slipping wave and shore are one,

And weed and mud. No ray of sun,
But glow to glow fades down the deep

(As dream to unknown dream in sleep);
Shaken translucency illumes

The hyaline of drifting glooms;
The strange soft-handed depth subdues

Drowned colour there, but black to hues,
As death to living, decomposes --

Red darkness of the heart of roses,
Blue brilliant from dead starless skies,

And gold that lies behind the eyes,
The unknown unnameable sightless white

That is the essential flame of night,
Lustreless purple, hooded green,

The myriad hues that lie between
Darkness and darkness! . . .

And all's one.
Gentle, embracing, quiet, dun,

The world he rests in, world he knows,
Perpetual curving. Only -- grows

An eddy in that ordered falling,
A knowledge from the gloom, a calling

Weed in the wave, gleam in the mud --
The dark fire leaps along his blood;

Dateless and deathless, blind and still,
The intricateimpulse works its will;

His woven world drops back; and he,
Sans providence, sans memory,

Unconscious and directly driven,
Fades to some dank sufficient heaven.

O world of lips, O world of laughter,
Where hope is fleet and thought flies after,

Of lights in the clear night, of cries
That drift along the wave and rise



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