EPITHALAMION

Wind in the street, and sadness of unknown walkers
in a world shut-out; infinite sadness of men
not, this night, one and quiet with my love:
look down, stars, you illimitable and glorious wakers,
on her delight that wakes from silks; her, the young moon,
her bright body stepping to me, perfect, unaloof, 
moving in life;
rising with no shame, towards Endymion.

Oh swift lights that sweep through your proud abysses,
and stretch your power along the infinitesimal days of man,
this shall escape you, this you shall not dissolve.
Have we not checked you, winging wind, stars in your courses,
bound you in a twilight of all times, made our demesne
in the still courts of the chimera, silenced moment and self?
		together, the gulf
walled-in, body and life made one?

Life in life, spirit in spirit, as the earth moves
for ever gently in the swaying of night's harness,
one peace; as now earth rests, and all the 
ships have untroubled ways in their white grooves,
and waters go among them on caressing journeys;
and our imprisoned prophecy steals wide and free
		as the pouring pools of the sea,
strong indissoluble wonder of deep clearness?

No future, no fear now, in this hushed house stirring;
only our breaths bound, linked the circle of our years,
and the past rising present against sleep.
I have taken the world in a small room, oh high staring 
night, our flesh made perfect; mine to be ours.
And the strong promise lays its head upon my lap:
		him will I keep,
here in the burning of our mutual fires.

And the fires burn down; faces return from glass;
we are not waking, dead, sleeping: we are still,
in timelessness, the flower shaken from the bough.
And shadows move in the deep breath of weariness;
in peace, unknowing, endeavour turns to the wall.
And the wheel's quietness is promise.  Now 
		we murmuring only know
the immemorial splendour of the wheel.