Chapter VIII: The Accusation

Mere night! The unconsenting Soul stands by, A moaning protestant. "Ah, not for this, And not for this, through rose and thorn was I Drawn to surrender and the bridal-kiss. Annunciations lit with jewelled wings Of sudden angels mid the lilies tall, Proud prothalamia chaunting enraptured things,-- O sumptuous fables, why so prodigal Of masque and music, of dreams like foam-white swans On lakes of hyacinthus? Must Love seek Great allies, Beauty sound her arrière-bans That all her splendours betray us to this bleak Simplicity whereto blind satyrs run?"-- The irony seems old, old as the sun.