Xxviii

Amor Mysticus

Not you, nor all the gauds that Fate bestows, Can make me swerve so little from my dream. Across my veil of mystery you seem Perhaps a little dearer than the rose, Perhaps more fair than the long light that flows Between the lids of twilight. But the gleam Of iris on the breast of wisdom's stream Is of a radiance that no rival knows.

My heart is not my heart, or it might chance To sorrow for the sorrow in your tears; My soul is locked against all circumstance Of life or love or death or heaven or hell; I have no place for laughter in my years, No room where little, little love might dwell.