Mere night! The unconsenting Soul stands by,
A moaning protestant. "Ah, not for this,
And not for this, through rose and thorn was I
Drawn to surrender and the bridal-kiss.
Annunciations lit with jewelled wings
Of sudden angels mid the lilies tall,
Proud prothalamia chaunting enraptured things,—
O sumptuous fables, why so prodigal
Of masque and music, of dreams like foam-white swans
On lakes of hyacinthus? Must Love seek
Great allies, Beauty sound her arrière-bans
That all her splendours betray us to this bleak
Simplicity whereto blind satyrs run?"—
The irony seems old, old as the sun.