II
O treasonable heart and perverse words,
Ye darken beauty with your plots of pain!
What languors beat through me like muted chords?
I know indeed that suffering shall profane
These lovers, sweet as viols or violet-spices.
Strangely must end their dreamy chess-playing,
Strange wounds amaze their broidered Paradises,
And stain the falconry and garlanding.
Their bodies must be broken as on wheels,
Their souls be carded with implacable shame,—
Molten like wax, be crushed beneath the seals
Of sin and penance. Yet, with wings aflame,
Love, Love more lovely, like a triumpher,
Shall break his malefactor's sepulchre.