Chapter XXXVII: Destiny

The great religions of the Rose and Grape Have bound us in to their sad Paradise: We dream in crucial symbols, nor escape The cypress-garden where the slain god lies. Daughters of lamentation round the Cross Where Beauty suffers garlanded with thorn, Remembrancers through all the Night of Loss, We bear the spikenard of the Easter Morn. The yearning Springs, the brooding Autumns seethe Like philtres in our veins. O dark Election, Are then the sacrificial doors we wreathe With lilies fiery gates of Resurrexion? And does the passion of our spices feed Love's bright Arabian miracle indeed?