Chapter XXXVI: Art and Women

The Triumph of Art compels few womenkind; And these are yoked like slaves to Eros' car,-- No victors they! Yet ours the Dream behind, Who are nearer to the gods than poets are. For with the silver moons we wax and wane, And with the roses love most woundingly, And, wrought from flower to fruit with dim rich pain, The Orchard of the Pomegranates are we. For with Demeter still we seek the Spring, With Dionysos tread the sacred Vine, Our broken bodies still imagining The mournful Mystery of the Bread and Wine.-- And Art, that fierce confessor of the flowers, Desires the secret spice of those veiled hours.