Chapter X: The Mirror-Cases

II

O treasonable heart and perverse words, Ye darken beauty with your plots of pain! What languors beat through me like muted chords? I know indeed that suffering shall profane These lovers, sweet as viols or violet-spices. Strangely must end their dreamy chess-playing, Strange wounds amaze their broidered Paradises, And stain the falconry and garlanding. Their bodies must be broken as on wheels, Their souls be carded with implacable shame,-- Molten like wax, be crushed beneath the seals Of sin and penance. Yet, with wings aflame, Love, Love more lovely, like a triumpher, Shall break his malefactor's sepulchre.