XII.

In silence and as though expectantly

She crouches at his feet, while he caresses

His light-drawn fingers with the touch of tresses

Sleeked round her head, close-banded lustrously,

Save where at nape and temple the smooth brown

Sleaves out into a pale transparent mist

Of hair and tangled light. So to exist,

Poised‘ twixt the deep of thought where spirits drown

Life in a void impalpable nothingness,

And, on the other side, the pain and stress

Of clamorous action and the gnawing fire

Of will, focal upon a point of earth — even thus

To sit, eternally without desire

And yet self-known, were happiness for us.