Jean. Your face again. Why, now you are fulfilled

Jean. Your face again. Why, now you are fulfilled. You will make my Mary perfect yet, your eyes Now, now the barren houses of despair, Of the passion that is none, of dread that feels No dread for ever, of love that has no love, Of death in all but death. O beautiful, Stretched, stamped and imaged in the mask of death, The crown of such sweet life! Your looks, your ways, Your touches, your slow smiles, your delicate mirth, All leading up to this! And his, the high Clear laughter on the threshold of renown, Stilled! I could almost weep for him and you, Weep all my wrong away. My queen, my rose Rent with strange swords, my woman of light worth, Behold, you have brought forth death.