Ii

Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie In the arms of despair that is masked as delight, You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear: “It is day, it is day, it has never been night! Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves; It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves, Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”