Ah! Pride and Wrath and Mirth and Pain and Pity,
Some amethystine day at last will be,
When your bright guard and Phantasy's hill-city
Shall be like wonders on a tapestry;
And we shall touch between tired orisons
The symbolism of those freaked crowns and wings,—
Then gaze across the falling Avalons,
The resignations of autumnal things,
And see among the pointed cypresses
The one god left, the smiling perverse god,
The Love that will not leave the loverless,
Contending with the Stranger of the Rod,—
Until these twain become as one, and all
The Soul and Sense be starrily vesperal.