Rachel Annand Taylor

"We crazed for you, aspired and fell for you; Over us trod Desire, with feet of fire. Ah! the sad stories we would tell for you, Full of dark nights and sighing While—you were dying, Chrysola!Roundels and all rich rimes we rang for you; How from the plangent lyre pled our Desire! But the musicians vainly sang for you;— Through the dear music, crying That—you were dying, Chrysola!High on the golden throne love wrought for you With eyes enthrall’d of rest, tired of our best; You sat unheeding while we fought for you Glaive unto glaive replying; For—you were dying, Chrysola!Frenzied from out the jousts we came to you; ‘Can we love more, Dream-fast? Crown, then, at last.’ But love and hate were one dim flame to you; Strange things you smiled us—dying, O! You were dying, Chrysola!Great spoils of frankincense we burn’d for you, Round your death-chamber proud—then cursed aloud Christian or Pagan god that yearn’d for you, Till you were undenying.— O Dream undying, Chrysola!"

"As a dancer dancing in a shower of roses before her King (A dreamer dark, the King) Throws back her head like a wind-loved flower, and makes her cymbals ring (O’er her lit eyes they ring); As a fair white dancer strange of heart, and crown’d and shod with gold, My soul exults before the Art, the magian Art of old."

"‘Who are you that so strangely woke, And raised a fine hand?’ Poverty wears a scarlet cloke In my land.‘Duchies of dreamland, emerald, rose Lie at your command?’ Poverty like a princess goes In my land.‘Wherefore the mask of silken lace Tied with a golden band?’ Poverty walks with wanton grace In my land.‘Why do you softly, richly speak Rhythm so sweetly-scanned?’ Poverty hath the Gaelic and Greek In my land.‘There’s a far-off scent about you seems Born in Samarkand.’ Poverty hath luxurious dreams In my land.‘You have wounds that like passion-flowers you hide: I cannot understand.’ Poverty hath one name with Pride In my land.‘Oh! Will you draw your last sad breath ’Mid bitter bent and sand?’ Poverty begs from none but Death In my land."

"O ye that look on Ecstasy The Dancer lone and white, Cover your charmèd eyes, for she Is Death’s own acolyte. She dances on the moonstone floors Against the jewelled peacock doors: The roses flame in her gold hair, The tired sad lids are overfair. All ye that look on Ecstasy The Dancer lone and white, Cover your dreaming eyes, lest she— (Oh! softly, strangely!)—float you through These doors all bronze and green and blue Into the Bourg of Night."

"The Rose of the World hangs high on a thorny Tree. Whoso would gather must harrow his hands and feet. But oh! It is sweet.The leaves that drop like blood from the thorny Tree Redden the roads of the earth from East to West. They lie in my breast.O Rose, O Rose of the World, bow down to me Who can cleave no more, so pierced are my hands and feet. For oh! Thou art sweet."