Ii

The spirit’s ark sealed with a little clay, Was old ere Memphis grew a memory; The hand pontifical to break away That seal what shall surrender? Not the sea Which did englut great Egypt and his war, Nor all the desert-drownèd sepulchres. Love’s feet are stained with clay and travel-sore, And dusty are Song’s lucent wing and hairs. O Love, that must do courtesy to decay, Eat hasty bread standing with loins up-girt, How shall this stead thy feet for their sore way? Ah, Song, what brief embraces balm thy hurt! Had Jacob’s toil full guerdon, casting his Twice-seven heaped years to burn in Rachel’s kiss?