ariadne.
117
Unto this bitter, burning soul no more
The wild renewal of that past delight,
When love sprang sudden to its perfect height,
Unfolded sweet, yet fearful, like a flower
'Neath the mute throbbings of the conscious night!
Pass, pass, as ravings of a drunken soul!
Yet, Gods, who rule this empty, awful world,
Who mete to highest and meanest things their dole,
Ye know no sight more fearful than one hurled
From some great joy into a doom of pain
O'er-deep for fathoming—no sight save this,
Of a proud heart that flings away all bliss
Of hope or memory; nor asks again
The friendly shadow of some little grief,
Or some sharp pang, its numbness to o'erbear,
But lightning-proof and desolate, a leaf
Left living and alone in wintry air,
Meets feelingless and dumb the evil wind,
Nor cares what woes are laboring up behind.
The wild renewal of that past delight,
When love sprang sudden to its perfect height,
Unfolded sweet, yet fearful, like a flower
'Neath the mute throbbings of the conscious night!
Pass, pass, as ravings of a drunken soul!
Yet, Gods, who rule this empty, awful world,
Who mete to highest and meanest things their dole,
Ye know no sight more fearful than one hurled
From some great joy into a doom of pain
O'er-deep for fathoming—no sight save this,
Of a proud heart that flings away all bliss
Of hope or memory; nor asks again
The friendly shadow of some little grief,
Or some sharp pang, its numbness to o'erbear,
But lightning-proof and desolate, a leaf
Left living and alone in wintry air,
Meets feelingless and dumb the evil wind,
Nor cares what woes are laboring up behind.
