THE LONG ROOM

He found the long room as it was of old,

Glimmering with sunset's gold;

That made the tapestries seem full of eyes

Strange with a wild surmise:

Glaring upon a Psyche where she shone

Carven of stainless stone,

Holding a crystal heart where many a sun

Seemed starrily bound in one:

And near her, grim in rigid metal, stood

An old knight in a wood,

Groping his way: the bony wreck, that was

His steed, at weary pause.

And over these a canvas — one mad mesh

Of Chrysoprase tints of flesh

And breasts — Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamed

For one who, brutish, seemed

A hideous Troll, unto whose lustful arms

She yielded glad her charms.

Then he remembered all her shame; and knew

The thing that he must do:

These were but records of his life: the whole

Portrayed to him his soul.—

So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial,

He drained it with a smile.

And‘ twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died;

The arras, evil-eyed,

Glared grimly at him where all night he lay,

And where a stealthy ray

Pointed her to him — her, that nymph above,

Who gave the Troll her love.