Chapter VII: The Warning

As delicate gorgeous rains of dusky gold Heavy white lilies, Love importunate Besets the soul,--as that wild Splendour told Pale Danaë her haughty heavenly fate. Not speared in burning points but spun in strands My senses: drowsily burning webs are they That veil me head to foot. While on mine hands And hair and lids thy kisses die away Through all my being their strange echoes thrill And from the body's flowery mysticism I draw the last white honey. What is thine ill? What wouldst thou more of that great symbolism? Beyond this ultimate moment nothing lies But moonless cold and darkness. Ah! be wise!