II - PROTHALAMION

The faded turquoise of the sky

Darkens into ocean green

Flecked palely where the stars will rise.

A single bough between

The spacious colour and your half-closed eyes

Hangs out its hazy traceries.

Still, like a drowsy god you lie,

My fair unbidden guest,

Your white hands crossed beneath your head,

Your lips curved strangely mute with peace,

Your hair moved lightly by the breeze.

A glow is shed

Warm on your face from the last rays that push

From the dying sun into the green vault of the west.

This is your bridal night; the golden bush

Is heavy with the fruits that you will taste,

Full ripened in desire.

You who have hoarded youth, this is your hour of waste,

Your hour of squandering and drunkenness,

Of wine-dashed lips and generous caress,

Of brows thorn-crowned and bodies crucified,—

O bid me to the feast.

Tomorrow when the hills are washed with fire,

Your door ajar against the flashing East,—

O fling it wide.