SIR WILLIAM WATSON
When nothing that asks for bliss,
Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is,
And half of the world a bride?
��The Song of Mingling flows,
Grave, ceremonial, pure,
As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose, When the temporal lord of life,
Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife
That long had said him nay.
For of old the Sun, our sire,
Came wooing the mother of men,
Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire. Silent her bosom and coy,
But the strong god sued and press'd ; And born of their starry nuptial joy
Are all that drink of her breabt.
And the triumph of him that begot,
And the travail of her that bore,
Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot. We arc children of splendour and flame,
Of shuddering, also, and tears. Magnificent out of the dust we came,
And abject from the Spheres.
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